


This Too Shall Pass

by Itsagoodthing (mybatboys)



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybatboys/pseuds/Itsagoodthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick releases a strangled, bitter laugh. “Huh. Some hero I am.”</p><p>Tim sits back, “S’got nothing to do with you being a hero, bruh. This is personal; something you’re being forced to deal with outside of the tights.</p><p>"And, if you'll remember, when Bruce was in a similar situation, he didn’t handle it with all grace and prestige either.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter 1

 

 **Rating:** PG-13 for a few instances of strong language (I apologize in advance for Dick’s mouth; he’s had a few _really_ bad days lately)

 **Disclaimer:**  DC owns the characters, not my fictives.

 **Author’s note (a):** In the comments of one of my recent stories, a reviewer asked “Why’s it so much fun to hurt Dick.”  I’ve thought about that question a lot and the first thing I came up with was, _well, I’m really good at it._ LOL  But, more so than that, We see these guys, they’re just human. They’re rough and tough and we see them fighting with injuries, fighting while they’ve got the flu, fighting when their personal world is falling apart around them. They take down super-villains and fight alongside metahumans. What we don’t see much of what it’s like behind the scenes, after an injury or a fight goes south for them. Their vulnerable side. How they care for each other when one is down. How the big, bad Batman feels and might react when faced with his greatest weakness, which I truly believe is Alfred and the boys he’s taken in and calls his family. It intrigues me, to see what I consider the unseen father/son relationship Bruce has with his boys and, being emotionally constipated like Bruce is, the only way we really get to see that is when he’s deeply concerned for someone. I believe it gives them a deeper character depth. I like that so I write it.

 **(b)** I haven’t had a chance to read comics in about 10 years, so my characters are forever set in a pre-52 timeline.  I haven’t written a new story in about 10 years either, so let’s just label this story AU because I’m rusty and I’m sure I’ll screw up characterizations here and there.

 **(c)** cross-posted on the fanfiction site

All that being said, I hope you enjoy.

 

**********************

 

"Go away."

The voice holds no emotion as he opens the door and, after a second's hesitation, Tim steels himself and moves one foot in front of the other making his way to the bed. “No, Dick.”

"I don't want you here."

"I’m not leaving."

"Get. Out." Dick inwardly winces at the tone of his own words; at the wave of malice that carried them forth.

"Dick... don't do this."

"What, Tim; do what? Tell you what I want?" Dick turns from the window he's been working on losing himself in for the past two weeks and releases a sarcastic huff of laughter. "Don't know why I'm surprised... no one else around here cares what I want either."

"That's not true, and you know it."

"Isn't it though? I'm twenty-four- _fucking_ -years old, yet Bruce, Alfred... and lately you too, have been all too keen on treating me like a child."

"Not trying to defend Bruce here…, but he’s not comfortable with you moving back to your apartment yet."

"That should be _my choice_ , _my_ decision." He states, thrusting a finger to his chest and hating himself for showing any hint of emotion when his voice cracks with those last few words.

Ever the performer at heart, Dick had done a spectacular job of repressing his anger for those first few weeks; too cocksure to accept the plan that numerous, world-renowned doctors, neurosurgeons and therapists had given him. They all agreed that, due to his current, astounding physical condition and taking into consideration the nature of his injury, he _should_ be able to reach a full recovery and that’s what he should strive for. That was their opinion and their opinion went down easily, like his favorite milkshake.

It was their timetable for recovery that he choked on: approximately four to six months for him to begin to walk again; ten more for a full recovery and, fine... yes. if he worked extra hard, it was not out of the realm of possibilities that he _might_ be able to make it in no less than ten months. Might.

Ten months. That was that plan for super-positive, gung-ho and “lookout world cuz nothin's gonna get in my way” Dick Grayson.

However, as the weeks began to pass the realization set in of how hard, painful and agonizingly _slow_ achieving that goal was going to be. The blaring possibility that he may actually miss his mark by a long shot, well, it hit Dick like a ton of bricks, knocking the wind out him,� heart and soul; more than once. Despair began to edge its way into his mind and he’d rebound and get his fire lit again, determined to never quit. But, for someone who was always in motion, playing cards with the hand that life had dealt him was beginning to extinguish his fire.

Gradually it had begun to be very clear that his light, the light that has always shone so brightly, was getting dimmer as the weeks passed by and Tim now fears that, if something didn’t give, his light was in grave danger of being snuffed out all together.

"Look..." Tim says softly and risks taking a seat on the edge of the bed, "... no one's intentionally trying to make your life suck even more than it currently does."

Dick looks at Tim, stunned.

"What?" Tim smiles at his brother's expression. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

Momentarily shaken from his own demons, A veil lifts and Dick studies his brother’s face; starts to take in the continence of the teen before him and begins to see what he couldn’t before. He  mentally berates himself for the worry lines and heavy eyes the soft lamplight reveals. _`...if Tim looked this weary... what have I done to Bruce.... to Alfred?'_

Seeing his brother’s blue eyes shimmer with a rush of emotion, Tim tentatively reaches out and grabs Dick's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze, “Look. I'm not here to give you a pep talk or to pretend to know how you’re feeling because I’m not you." He paused and leans forward, “And anyone who's tried to is a damn fool."

Dick's mouth twitched and the snort of laughter was a little more genuine this time, "You should tell him that to his face."

Tim looked directly into his eyes, "I did."

Dick’s eyebrows rose in… _surprise�?_ _Atta'boy_ Tim thought. _That's_ _three emotions now in less than 20 minutes_.

"You did what?"

Tim folds his arms across his chest, "I told him the way he was going about dealing with you, namely by _not_ dealing with you, was doing nothing but making things worse. I told him that he may know more than the rest of us about what you’re going through, but not how you’re feeling or even all that you _need_ in order to really knock your recovery out of the park. 

“I told him if he truly wanted to help you then things had to change.”

Dick is silent for a moment as he processes and then asks, "What'd he say?"

"Told me that if I had a better idea to say it or get out."

"And..."

"And, I told him that you were right."

"Wait-wait-wait... hold up." Dick says, carefully pushing himself back on the bed, shaking his head in confusion. "I was right about what? The only thing I've been saying for the last week was how I was going to break out of this prison and go home."

"Right."

"You told him I was right."

"Yes."

"About leaving."

"Yes."

"Leaving here and going back to my apartment."

Tim rolls his eyes, _“Yes._ I told him he was being unrealistic if he thought that by keeping you here, was in any way helping you. I said that you’re just about as independent as you can be around here. Yes, you’re healing from a serious injury, but you wouldn’t be that far away and that even your physical therapist said it might be good for you to get some independence back. _"_

Dick is quiet for a moment, "What'd he say?"

"Honestly? He told me I was wasting his time that we'd all been over this too many times than he'd like to count and the answer was still no. I, however..." Tim quickly reaches out to grip his brother's forearm, keeping him from falling behind that all-too familiar veil of emptiness that began to overshadow his face again, "... told him that I wasn't done with my proposal."

Emptiness gives way to skepticism and Dick takes his turn at crossing his arms across the brace that covers part of his chest. "Oh? And what, pray tell, _is_ the rest of that proposal?"

Forcing himself not to divert his eyes, Tim sucks in a breath and raises his chin, "That I go with you."

Dick laughs; cynicism is back and then some "Nice, Timmy. Real nice."

Having already told himself this, or worse, would be Dick's reaction he keeps going, "Look, it’s only been four weeks. You’re still healing and having someone around some of the time isn’t a bad idea. I wouldn’t be there all the time. I’ve still got school and i’m sure after you get settled, I’ll go out as Robin a few nights here and there. It's better than nothing, Dick.”

"Wrong. It _is_ nothing."

Tim finds himself at a loss, so he just sits there and scowls at Dick. In the years that he’s known, trained with, fought beside and bled for his brother, he’s never seen him so blatantly reject common sense, or even at the very least, his help. Standing up now, Tim takes a couple paces before turning around, his body language exasperated, "Then, what do you **_want?_** "

Dick takes a breath and turns icy blue eyes on his brother, "I want the same thing I've been saying for a week. I want to leave; go; depart; ditch this oppressive hole and go back home. I don't know what your problem is in understanding that... but if you can't get that through your _thick skull,_ then I don't need or _want_ you here� trying to fight my battles for me when in all actuality... you agree with him. You can take your sanctimonious ass and get out. 

Tim stands still for a moment and analyzes his brother's cold and entirely too-calm words that mingle in with the few bits of emotion he saw flicker across his face. He comes to a startling revelation and mentally kicks himself for not realizing it earlier. He smacks a palm to his forehead in disbelief, “Oooooh my God... I am _such_ an idiot!”

Dick frowns at him, completely unsure of where this is going.

“It’s so obvious to me now. I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.” Tim says, placing his hands on his hips and then there is silence in the room for a moment. Tim’s looking completely flabbergasted at Dick and he’s looking back at him like Tim is one of Joker’s Jack-in-the-Boxes; not sure if it’ll be Jack or a bomb that comes out when it pops open.  

With a palm raised in Dick’s direction, Tim says: "You're afraid."

Dick responds to Tim’s revelation with a sharp bark of laughter, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I heard you talk outta your ass."

"Fine. You don't have to admit it, Dick... but I know it all the same, and it's nothing to be ashamed of."

Dick leans forward as much as he can and glares, pointing at his brother, "Aren't you the one that sat right here, just a second ago, and told me no one had the right to tell me how to feel? Being a little hypocritical now, don't you think?"

"Wrong.” Tim says and takes a few quick strides to the side of the bed, “I'm not telling you _how_ to feel... I'm telling you _what_ you feel. And I think you're so damn closed up that even you can't see it, Dick. You're scared…  scared to leave and be out on your own. And Bruce knows it and he's doing you a favor by being an _ass_ and telling you that you can't leave–” Tim raises his voice to talk over Dick’s dismissive muttering, “–because he knows that really, deep down inside, you don't want to leave–"

"Whatever."

"–don't want to be out on your own, even if it is just to your apartment here in Gotham."

"Tim. Enough!" Dick replies, fighting with all he had to keep his chest from heaving from the surge of self-denial demanding to be brought out into the light and revealed for what it truly was.

Tim stops and remains where he stands for a moment, studying his brother who refuses to look anywhere except down at his lap. Frowning, Tim exhales a breath and eases onto the bed opposite Dick. He hesitates a second before grabbing his shoulder again, "Tell me I'm wrong."

Dick swallows hard and attempts halfheartedly to shrug off his brother's arm.

Tim simply grips Dick’s shoulder a little firmer and nods, "Okay. Fair enough. Answer me this last question though:  If you're not unsure about leaving and being on your own... then why haven't you?"

"I– what?"

Dick’s brow is pinched with confusion when he looks up and Tim barely catches the flash of panic in his guarded expression.  "I _said_..." Tim repeats softly, "Why haven't you left? You've made it very clear, on more than one occasion, just like you did with me tonight, that you're not a child and can make your own decisions. You're right. You're not a child... and can't be forced to stay here. If you feel you’re ready..., why haven't you left, Dick?"

"...Tim...I," Dick stumbles over his words and tries to come up with an answer, but his mind is a blank. The realization that Tim might be right strikes him hard and he breathes deeply, trying to sort through a wave of emotions crashing down on him. He tries to find a logical explanation: _Why hadn't he just left? Packed up his shit, called a taxi and left?_

Tim patiently sits and waits for Dick to answer his question. At first, he can see Dick struggle over a conflict of emotions, but it doesn’t take long for denial to lose. Dick’s too sharp to be fooled for long, even if it is himself that was doing the fooling. It isn’t hard to tell when the truth wins out and Tim squeezes his brother’s shoulder again when he uses a hand to cover his face as it begins to crumple with defeat.

“Oh my God, Tim. You’re right.” Dick whispers around a choked sob. “What the hell's the _matter_ with me?”

Leaning forward, Tim rests his forehead against his brother’s and sighs, “Nothing. Well, other than your world being turned upside down, and a little PTSD thrown in just for fun.” Tim tries to joke.

Dick releases a strangled, bitter laugh. “Huh. Some hero I am.”

Tim sits back, “S’got nothing to do with you being a hero, bruh. This is personal; something you’re being forced to deal with outside of the tights.

"And, if you'll remember, when Bruce was in a similar situation, he didn’t handle it with all grace and prestige either.”

Dick snorts and nods in genuine, amused agreement while using his sleeve to wipe his nose. He takes a shuddering breath, “What am I going to do, Timmy? I’m so far from the person I used to be, I don’t even feel like _me_ anymore. I’m losing myself.” Dick sighs, and shifts against the pillows,. “Therapy and progress are going so. _damn_. slow.”

“We’re all used to dealing with injuries, Dick. We’ve all had just about any kind, multiple times and when we get hurt, we know how and what to do to heal the quickest way possible. But, this is a wild card for you. Something that has a new set of rules and you need to start looking at your progress a day at a time. Stop thinking about where you might be months or even a week from now. You’ll drive yourself crazy doing that.”

Dick didn’t answer, just sighs slowly and turns his head to look out the window again, this time without the urge to lose himself in the sprawling grounds outside. This time, he just can't talk anymore at the moment. He needs the quiet to process the thoughts and emotions that he’d locked away in the back of his mind.

Tim understands and knows this. He’s content to just sit in silence with his brother, to be there for him, to prove to him that he isn’t alone and that it’s better to allow someone into his personal hell; that together, with his family, they’ll help to bring him through this and turn his world right side up once again.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Dick's still throwing around a few of those F-bombs, so proceed at your own risk.

Lounging back, side by side against a bounty of pillows, both brothers continue to ride out the cloud of silence before, “Ya know,” and Tim’s the first to break that silence, “...it’s kinda cool.”

Dick raises an eyebrow and Tim gestures toward the wheelchair by the bed. The tool that Dick’s hated every day he’s been forced to use it; even this one, a top-of-the-line sport model that Tim had just brought in the other day.

“What?” Tim asks with a shrug and slides off the bed. “It is. I mean, come on... first off, you’ve got yourself a very sleek midnight blue frame with jet black seat and wheels; twenty- _eight_ inch sport-style wheels to be exact– ”

“ _...-sigh-...”_

“– they’re a bit larger than your usual market specs... but I know how much of a speed demon you are– ”

“Tim.”

“At just under 20 pounds, it’s super lightweight and folds up small enough to fit into an airplane’s overhead compartment; titanium-quad release axles– ”

“I’m really _not_ in the mood… ”

“Frame’s built with a 70-degree front angle, which, they said, holds the user’s legs in a tighter position, making it easier to maneuver; providing fast, tight turns.

“Tim. Enough.”

“The axle positions are adjustable, so you can adjust the center of gravity.  Oh, and the in-line shock-absorbing front and rear suspension technology–”

“Stop it!”

Standing back up from where he’d been crouched down beside the wheelchair, Tim takes a seat opposite Dick on the mattress and grabs his upper arms with a firm hold,  “Listen to me, Dick.”

Being just a bit surprised at the Robin-tone Tim’s using with him, Dick looks directly into his brother’s blazing blue eyes.

“Whether you like it or not, man... that chair, until you get enough mobility back to where you don’t need it... it’s gonna be a part of you and– Hey. Look at me.” Tim gently orders and waits until his brother’s conflicted eyes once again meet his.

“It’s a part of you, just like a sling is when you break an arm or crutches when you break a leg or screw up a knee. You don’t reject or rebel against them, knowing you’ll need ‘em to allow your body to heal, so you accept it. The wheelchair is no different. You have _got_ to stop hating it.” Tim says and then watches Dick, hoping he would really _hear_ what he’s saying, but his brother just sits there glaring at him with a look of bold defiance.

Tim exhales shortly through his nose, “Look. You have yourself certain facts and, you can deny them and be mad about them, break a few windows about them if you have to, but when it all comes down to it, they are what they are.” Tim stated, beginning to count off on his fingers:

“One: You have a back injury. Two: Said injury resulted in three compression fractures and two burst fractures. Three: The bone fragments from the burst fractures resulted in spinal shock, leaving you with no mobility from the hips down– Un uh... you’re going to hear me out.” Tim says when Dick turns his face away again.  “No mobility. Dick, you. Can. Not. Walk– ”

“Dammit, Tim! I fucking _know_ that!” ” Dick shouts in his face.

Jumping to his feet, Tim shouts right back, “Then it’s about damn time you start acting like it! You have to get it through your _thick head_ that as much as you hate it, this is where you are right now. And, if you don’t accept that, then you’re just fooling yourself because everyone else knows it and let me tell you something, bruh... you’re doing an awfully good job of using that tool called _denial_ to close yourself off from your friends and family!

“No one thinks any differently of you. No one thinks you’re any less of a man–  the only way you _could_ be less of a man is to continue to sulk and bask in your own damned self-pity and denial! Damn it!” Tim shouts in frustration and then looks up at the ceiling and takes a couple of calming breaths.

Fuck. Dick wanted to yell; yell and fight and scream and just trash the whole bloody joint. Wanted to shut Tim up and throw him out, but– _fuck it..._ – he was right and he wasn’t saying anything that his own conscience hadn’t been telling him ever since reality had sunk in, hitting him in the gut with the force of a wrecking ball.

Seeing the fight leave Dick, his shoulders slumping a little, Tim sat down on the side of the bed again, “You know... having a positive attitude isn’t just for your own emotional well-being. It also helps you to recover and work harder at reaching that goal of, what was it, ten months?”

Dick closes his eyes, exhaling deeply, “...yeah.”

“Okay then. Ten months. You’re never gonna get there if you don’t go at it with all you’ve got; mind, body _and_ soul.”

And then Dick says something with such a small voice of insecurity that it rattles Tim,  leaving him momentarily speechless, “Do you think I can do it, Timmy– I mean... really believe it?”

“What… what’re you talking about?” The teen scoffs incredulously, “Of _course_ I think–” sighing, Tim grabs both his of brother’s shoulders, “Dick, I _know_ you can do it; and what’s with the self-doubt? Is that what’s really standing in your way? You got voices in there telling you lies?”

Dick shrugs his shoulder and looks out the window. “I don’t know, I mean…”  He’s quiet for a moment then looks back at his brother, “At first, no. Not really. I got the diagnosis and the doctors all agreed that the lack of feeling below my injury site was due to spinal shock from the trauma, not because the cord itself was damaged, and once the swelling from that went away, I’d be on my way to getting back to normal. I was told it could take a few weeks to a few months for the swelling to go down and it would be a long road to recovery. I accepted that and was completely ok with that because it meant this,” Dick stopped to gesture at his legs and the wheelchair, “wouldn’t be permanent.”

Frowning, Tim asks, “So, when did your perspective change?”

Dick shakes his head, “I don’t know for sure, but…, I guess I’d have to say maybe a couple weeks in? I know it sounds pathetic.” Dick says quickly, looking down with an embarrassed smile and begins to pick at a loose thread on his jeans. “I guess I had a plan in my head for my recovery; milestones I wanted to reach at certain week markers and these first couple weeks of PT have been a pretty loud wake-up call. Everything was so much harder than I had anticipated; not even _close_ to how thought it might go. I had myself believing it would only take a couple of weeks before I would get feeling back and could then go all out with the PT. But, that wasn’t happening and it started to become clear that I was looking at a lot longer recovery than I had accepted…”

Dick looks up sharply, “But, I didn’t want to give up. I’ve _never_ wanted to give up. You know?” he says searching Tim’s eyes, fiercely needing him to understand and believe that last part.

“Yeah, man.” Tim nods sincerely, “I know.”

“I don’t know why or when…, but somewhere around there I guess I kind of got messed up in the head and started to wonder if I was going to become one of those people who couldn’t make it all the way back to a full recovery. 

“At first, I could shake off that thought pretty easily, but then it kept coming back, stronger and stronger and pretty soon, it set up camp right in the front of my mind and I started having trouble seeing around it. I guess a part of me started to believe it. And things started to get pretty dark for me.”

“PTSD Depression basically.” Tim states bluntly.

Dick grins with insecurity and his expression says he doesn't accept Tim’s diagnosis, “Naw…, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Bruce would.”

Dick looks at him for a moment in stunned silence.  “What?”

Scratching the side of his head, Tim chooses his next words carefully, “Look, Dick. It’s been pretty obvious that you’ve been struggling…, on an emotional level. Completely understandable and even expected, okay? But, it’s kind of gotten to a point that, Bruce…, he’s been talking about putting you on meds. 

“Are you serious?”

Tim nods, “Yeah, and, you know, absolutely _nothing_ wrong with that at all. You’ve got yourself one hell of a life-changing situation going on right now. He just said if you kept struggling emotionally like you have been, if you couldn’t pull yourself out of it soon, or if it got any worse, it might have to be an option. He just didn’t want you to become so depressed that you’d give up or stop trying because, _then,_ you probably wouldn’t make a full recovery.”

“Full recovery.” Dick tries out the term on his tongue again.

“Yeah, Dick. Full Recovery. That’s what you’re working your ass off for, right? That’s still your goal?” Tim challenges.

Picking at the same thread again, Dick doesn't look at Tim when he asks again in that same, uncharacteristically quiet voice, “And, you still think that’s going to happen.”

It was spoken as a statement, but Tim can hear the question behind it.  “Dude!? Are you or are you not the guy that landed in one of the most corrupt cities on the eastern seacoast and decided to set up camp, determined to make a difference? And you did, Dick. One man. You infiltrated a corrupt police department from the bottom up by yourself.

“You’ve been the freaking Batman more than once and completely rocked it. You went into Blackgate during No Man’s Land and fought off a prison full of goons single-handed… _while_ you had the flu!

“Can’t you see it, Dick... see _all_ you’ve accomplished? And, all this…, I’m talking about just you here. Solo; in just the past few years. I’m not even talking about being a founding member and leader of the Teen Titans, leader of the Outsiders, battles you’ve lead your teams through; lead the freakin’ _Justice League_ through– Dick, people don’t listen to you and trust you to lead them through hell and back, just because you’ve got a nice smile.”

“Excuse me?”

Tim shrugs, “Eh... Supergirl started the whole thing, and you don’t _even_ want me to go on about what she said about your ass.”

Dick raises an eyebrow,  “My ass?”

“The point is,” Tim continues, “I..., never in a million years, would I have thought you’d face all those blatant against-the-odds scenarios like the cocky son’ova bitch I know you are, only to cower down when we’re talking about a personal challenge– like _this_ ,” Tim states, gripping one of Dick’s thighs for emphasis, “... to doubt yourself like you are right now.”

Dick’s gaze floats to where Tim’s hand rests on his leg. The weight of it and the pressure from where his fingers give a reassuring squeeze plays a little with his sanity. He doesn’t mind the touch, it reminds him of the progress he’s made compared to where he’d been right after his injury. But it was maddening that, while he could feel it, he couldn’t move his leg. He was just getting to where he was regaining the sensation to temperature and pressure, but actually making one of his legs move was about as hard as Superman lifting a car while wearing a blanket of Kryptonite. 

Tim gives his thigh another light squeeze and it brings him out from under his train of thought and again he meets his brother’s eyes, “I’m human, Tim and;  I’m ...”

“Yeah. I know. And it’s okay to be... apprehensive about making it because, as you just said, you’re human.” Pausing a minute to collected his thoughts, Tim sighs and moves his hand back to his own lap. “I guess what I’m trying to say is... you’re not alone and... I know you’re unsure about this new realm you’ve found yourself caught up in.  But, I’m here and, Roy’s here and Wally, Bruce and Alfred and, heck, I could go on until I’m blue in the face listing everyone that’s behind you through all of this.”

Tim smiles warmly, “It’s gonna be okay. It’s all temporary. The chair is only with you for a season. If you work hard and if you can change your outlook on things, then you’ll be out of it in no time.”

Dick sits in silence for a moment, chewing on his lip before looking back to Tim, “Ten months huh? You don’t think it’s too far-fetched?”

“Hell no! In fact, I was surprised you went with that goal. I was thinking more along the lines of eight or nine.”

Dick smirks, “The doctors would have had a good laugh at that one.”

“Yeah, well... they don’t know my big brother like I do.” Tim grins and, being careful not to jar him, smacks Dick on the arm. “I know you can do it, and you do too. And, shoot…,  if you’re not sure? Then that’s what I’m here for, bruh. I got your six; one hundred-ten percent.”

Dick takes a breath and closes his eyes for a moment.  He lets his brother’s words  seep through the wall he’d built up to keep everyone out– to keep feelings out– and allows them to take root within his soul.

He looks over at the new chair for a moment and says, “You picked it out. Didn’t you?”

“Ehhh...” Tim waves a hand in the air, “ _designed_ is more like it.”

Dick looks to his brother and, drawing off the support and positivity that's radiating off him in waves, sighs in resignation and begins to stiffly scoot himself toward the edge of the bed.  A thought of hating how the back brace restricts his movements surfaces, but he takes Tim's advice and mentally tells himself to get over it.

Tim looks between the chair and his brother for a moment. “Should I... do you want me to–” he sees a flicker of pain ghost across Dick’s face with each movement and is torn between reaching for him to ease his brother’s burden and stepping back to give him his independence.    

Dick looks up to Tim in mid-scoot and sees what was tumbling through his brother's mind. He knows Tim wants to help, but is was also afraid of stepping on Dick’s pride and setting him off. _Again._

And, boy, was that pride making a holy racket, screaming inside his mind: _“Don’t let him see that you’re weak! Don’t let him see how you can’t move like you should! Don’t let him see that you can’t use your legs!”_

With a sigh Dick chooses to swallow the pride he’s been choking on for weeks and nods toward the chair, “Swing it around for me.”

Tim jumps into action and lines up the chair with Dick’s position, engages the wheel locks and places a hand on Dick’s shoulder for assistance.

Dick looks up with a grimace while tugging on the leg of his jeans to pull his knee up, “I got it, Timmy.”

Tim steps back, “Yeah, Okay…”

Dick pretends like no one else was in the room and moves his legs over the side of the bed before placing a hand on the seat of his chair and, after a minute of awkward maneuvering and pausing to ride out a jolt of pain, shifts his weight entirely onto the seat. He lifts each leg with his hands to place his feet on the foot bar and gives the left wheel a push to swing himself around. 

Tim sits on the bed, out if the way, while Dick uses the open space within the enormous bedroom to explore his new chair, finally giving it a decent try.

After a few more hefty pushes to gain some speed, Dick grips a wheel, makes a sharp turn and then rocks back and forth for a moment, looking over the side saying, “Can we increase the angle on the back wheels; give it maybe a 7-degree camber for tighter handling?”

With a smile that could light up the darkest recesses of the Batcave, Tim vaults over the bed and heads over to Dick. Pulling his phone out of his back pocket, he squats down next to his brother and brings up the specs. Together they discuss the chairs’ customization options.

After a few minutes, Tim hands Dick his phone and lays down on his back, scooting himself underneath to take a look at the cambers and axles. While he’s looking at the hardware on the underside, he can’t help smiling to himself because the more they throw ideas back and forth, the more Dick’s beginning to sound like his old self.

It was a start.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Crossing the flawless marble floor in the foyer, Tim heads for the main staircase. He jogs up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time and starts toward Dick’s room. His heart lightens as he rounds the corner to see a soft light spilling into the hallway from Dick’s open door.

Over the years, when Dick would be staying at the manor, a bedroom door that was not fully closed acted as an open invitation between the brothers to enter at will. However, over the last couple of weeks, when Dick would be in his room, the door was almost always shut. A clearer message couldn’t be sent that Tim wasn’t welcome. The fact that Dick had purposely left his door open tonight was another sign that his brother was trying again. 

Tim enters the room and finds Dick shoving socks and shorts into a duffel bag on his lap. He walks over and leans against the dresser, “Got much more to pack?”

“Nope. This is the last of it.”

Tim nods and looks over to the bed where two more bags are waiting to be taken downstairs. He walks over and peeks into an open bag, “Dude. How many CDs do you _have_?” he asks, taking out a handful and begins to sort through them.

“I don’t know. A lot?”

“Uh huh. Um; the hell’s this?” Tim asks, holding up a brightly colored case. 

Dick looks up, “The Wiggles.” he answers, zipping his bag closed and turns his chair toward the bed.

“Mm hmm.” Tim looks at the case and then back to his brother. “And, you have this, why?”

“It’s Lian’s”

“Yeah, I figured that, but why do you have it here?”

Dick looks at Tim and blinks, “Because I just can’t sleep without hearing _Rock-a-bye Your Bear.”_ Dick heaves another bag from the bed onto his lap. “I really don’t think Alfred scanned my collection and made personal selections, Tim. He just grabbed everything.”

 _“Mm’yeah…_ I don’t know if I’m buying it,” Tim says while flipping the case over, scanning the song list on the back, “... cuz, _Chugga Chugga Big Red Car_ has you written all over it.”

Dick plucks the case from Tim’s hand and tosses it back into the bag. “Shut up or I’ll restrain you and force you listen to _Wiggly Party_ for hours.”

“That bad?”

Dick fixes Tim with an expression of quiet-desperation, “You have _no_ idea.”

* * *

As Alfred walks down the long hallway, he slows his approach just before the doorway of his destination and allows himself a moment that would normally put a bend in his usual strict and proper etiquette.

Standing out of view from the room’s occupants, he steals a moment to listen and comes to the conclusion that, compared to their usual boisterous antics, boys’ bantering is running on the more tepid side. He can hear Dick putting forth the effort, however. And, that’s more than he could have said for the lad for some time. 

He never once doubted that Dick would find his way back to the top. He may not be quite there yet, but the lad was well on his way. Pride for his grandson's determination to preserve and fight the good fight pulses through him and he finds himself having to swallow past a tightness in his throat.

Having decided that his information gathering – _never snooping_ – had fulfilled its purpose, Alfred stands tall, gives the bottom of his coat a stiff yank and forces the kind smile that had crept onto his face to dissolve into his usual stoic demeanor.

He steps forward, clearing his throat courteously, as he pushes open the bedroom door enough to stand in the doorway, “Master Dick, if I may interrupt for just a moment, when you have finished with your packing, Master Bruce requests to see you in his study.”

Tim’s back was facing Alfred when he had arrived and, without moving, gives his brother a look that they had teased each other with many times over the years when one of them had been sent for.

Dick contains his amusement at their silent exchange and looks around his brother as the man he’d come to know as a grandfather enters the room, “Thanks, Alfred. I’m about finished here anyway.”

“Very good, Sir.” Alfred replies and then raises both eyebrows at the sight of Dick adjusting two duffel bags and a backpack on his lap. “Ah, might I offer you some assistance and unburden you from your luggage?”

Dick looks down at his load and then back at the older gentleman, “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

“Not a’tall, young sir.” Alfred says with the hint of a smile and lifts the duffel bags in one hand and the backpack in the other.  He turns and begins to take his leave, but then stops at the door. “Master Timothy?”

Dick raises his eyebrows at Alfred’s use of Tim’s proper name and fixed his brother with the same look of demise Tim had given him earlier.

The teen hesitantly turns toward the older man, “Yeah, Alfie?”

Standing in the doorway, proper and straight, and holding Dick’s overstuffed bags as if they weigh next to nothing, Alfred raises his chin as he speaks, “ _Goading_ to provoke or spur a reaction out of another is _hardly_ the proper conduct of a refined young man, such as yourself. I would hope that in the future, you’ll be quick to remember this.”

Tim frowns and answers with an apologetic, “Yes, sir.”

With a nod, Alfred turns and leaves the room.

* * *

 

Leaving the door to his study cracked open, Bruce shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls to the middle of the room. For a moment, he just stands there and looks around. As his mind churns, his gaze lands on a picture sitting on the mantle above the fireplace. He’s drawn to it and, as he moves forward, he tries to remember the year it was taken.

It’s a picture of him and Dick; one from their earlier days. He reaches for the frame and as he studies the picture, he chuckles to himself. It was sometime late in the first year that Dick had come to live with them. In the picture, they’re in the first car of a roller coaster and Bruce is leaning forward, clutching the safety bar and doing his best to look positive terrified as the roller coaster plummets down from a three-story drop. Dick is to his right, his eyes wide with excitement, both hands raised high above his head with one of the largest grins he’s ever seen on the boy. 

He returns the picture to its spot on his mantle and thinks of the reason for that trip. Normally, Bruce Wayne stepping foot inside of an amusement park, let alone riding a roller coaster, would have been completely unheard of; not to mention willingly eating cotton candy, corn dogs fried pickles, and the like, between many more rides.

It had been a suggestion by Alfred, of course. He, being the one home with Dick the most, had noticed the boy was keeping to himself more and more and had casually brought it up one night while serving Bruce a cup of coffee in the cave. Alfred was concerned that the long hours Batman had been devoting to a case and the vast emptiness of the manor might be making Dick feel even more alone than he already had.

Bruce replied, saying that Dick had Alfred to keep him company, but older man was quick to point out that while he was fond of the boy, he noticed how Dick associated better with Bruce. Alfred told him how he also noticed the way Dick would stand just a bit taller when Bruce would ask him about school, or on the odd night that Bruce could join him for dinner, how Dick would eat nearly twice as much than when it was just him eating at the bar in the kitchen while Alfred cleaned up.

Knowing Alfred had already come up with an answer to their dilemma well before presenting his concern to him, Bruce asked Alfred what he had in mind, and then proceeded to choke on his coffee when Alfred had suggested the amusement park. However, as Alfred quickly explained while he recovered, it made sense.

Dick missed his parents, the circus, his former life; and the life that he had lived as a nine-year-old was brimming with excitement. He was always on the go, seeing new places, learning new aerial routines that flirted with danger. It was a complete 180° from the life he was trying to acclimate to there at the manor. Dick needed another taste of adventure and excitement.

So, Bruce had surprised Dick that next morning by appearing at breakfast and then, while he read the paper and sipped his coffee, casually told Dick they’d both be playing hookie that day. Instead of work and school, they’d be taking the jet to Arlington to explore Six Flags over Texas.

Bruce smiles to himself now as he walks over to the French doors leading out to the patio, he looks at the moon in its third quarter phase and remembers what Dick had said that night on the plane ride home. The boy had been curled up on the plush seat, a smear of mustard on one of his cheeks and his head pillowed on a stuffed gorilla that Bruce had won in a game of ring toss. Dick had looked at him with heavy lids and smiled. Bruce had asked him if he’d had a good time. Dick nodded, saying it was one of his most favorite days ever. Bruce’s his heart swelled just a little with fondness and he smiled back, telling Dick it was one of his most favorite days, too.

Bruce knew right then, that the groggy little boy in the seat across from him had won his heart, and he also knew that it probably wouldn’t be the first time he'd find himself stepping outside his comfort zone to help him through some of life’s pitfalls.

Leaning his forearm against the glass door in his study, Bruce thinks about recent days between him and Dick. He thinks about the role he had played, attempting to protect Dick from his own denial for a while and giving him time to come to terms with his situation. He played the bad cop and subliminally fed Tim ideas with the intention of turning him into the good cop.

He knew the bond that Dick and Tim share as brothers was best considered as a living, breathing entity all in itself. Something they had both drawn upon when needed– when almost no one else would understand what it was like to sometimes fight alongside Metas with your only super powers being those that you've sculpted and honed yourself out of your own, very-human body. Someone that knew what it felt like to go into battle knowing that, this time, it could very well be your last.

And, if that wasn't enough, Bruce could only shrug to himself in admitting that, growing up with and/or working with the Batman wasn't always the easiest thing in the world to go through. Unless you've been there and walked that very same line, day in and day out, you could never truly appreciate the stress and insanity _the mission_ puts on you. Who better to help you sort through all that junk than your brother?

As strong and powerful as their bond is, though, Bruce had pulled a trump card when Dick had started to come around that first day following his injury. A moment he had been dreading was nearly upon him and he insisted that Alfred and Tim leave the room and give them some privacy. Life had dealt his son one hell of a hand and he remembered all too well what it felt like to wake up and realize that your world had just been turned upside down on you. He knew what Dick’s first reactions would be and how he’d have a hell of a time trying to accept what Bruce had to tell him.

The kid had been in constant motion since the day he was born and Bruce knew the first thing he'd do after regaining consciousness would be what they've all done after realizing they went down during a battle; test the waters, assess pain level and see what worked and what didn't.

Breaking the news was hard to do, and it was hard for Dick to take, but Bruce focused on the fact that unlike his original prognosis, Dick's would not be permanent. A long, rough road of rehabilitation, yes, but the focal point would be the fact that things would get back to normal.

Nightwing was not grounded and would fly again.

Bruce had spent the first couple of days after Dick’s injury by his bedside and it was only by Alfred’s persistent urging that he had returned home to get some rest and a hot shower. After a three-hour nap (just long enough for two complete sleep cycles) and the aforementioned shower, Bruce walked through the kitchen, snagged an apple off the counter, and opened the door to the garage.

He had one foot out the door when he stopped and sighed. There was an almost unbearable urgency pulling at his heart to get back to his son as soon as he could, but that bitch called responsibility was telling him that he needed to place a quick call to Lucius. He needed to give him an update and let him know that he’d definitely be unavailable for the rest of the week, and probably all the next.

Bruce looked over at his Range Rover and thought to himself that he could easily text Lucius in a bit, but then he cursed to himself and decided that a call would be better, so that he could help iron out any kinks that the board might be trying to stir up in his absence.

Hell, if he was honest with himself, a pre-recorded video conference for them, confirming that he hadn’t suddenly disappeared on “vacation” (like he had in the past), that he would be returning in-person after a short while and reiterating that Lucius was acting on his behalf during his absence, would make the job he asked of his old friend much easier.

Defeated by his own sense of responsibility, he walked back into the kitchen, tossed the apple and his keys on the counter, and headed straight for his study. As he walked, he was in his own world, mentally going over current projects and a few topics he wanted to discuss with Lucius. He was halfway into his study before an unexpected sight registered in his mind and caused him to stop short.

Bruce stood there and processed for only a moment before somberly walking over to take a look at the new furniture arrangement by his desk. For as many years as he could remember, it had always been the same; the way his father had always kept it when it was _his_ study. The large, antique walnut desk was near the east wall, across from the double French doors. Sitting opposite from the desk were always pair of leather wingback chairs. Presently, one chair was missing.

Walking up to the lone chair still across from his desk, Bruce places his hand on the top of the flared wing and looks at the empty space next to it. The chair on the left had been removed. It was the one that Dick always plopped down in after tracking down Bruce in his study, usually wanting to talk to him about something; almost certainly when Bruce would be trying to concentrate on work. It was also the one Dick always choose to slither into when he’d been sent for by his displeased guardian when the young boy had done something that needed to be addressed.

Thoughts tumbled through Bruce’s mind as he stared at the hollow indentations left in the plush area rug from where the vacant chair used to sit. He knows Alfred moved the chair so Dick would still be able to sit and visit with Bruce in his usual spot– _Same spot; wrong chair._ The thought popped into Bruce’s mind and his grip on the chair tightened, Italian leather creaks beneath his fingers, and Bruce had to breathe deeply before he gave into the surge of anger boiling up from his gut. If he didn’t calm down quickly, he’d further delay his departure by having to clean up the mess from whatever might get smashed.

Taking another breath, he turned away from his desk for a moment and that’s when he saw what became of the missing chair. A little minor rearranging in the room was evident and he spotted it in the corner on the far side of the French doors. A small, round walnut end table with a glass top accompanies the lone chair and a tall, well-groomed Dracaena plant was placed behind it. The plant’s green foliage framed the chair perfectly and the newly decorated corner looked like it had been there all along, perfectly blending into flow of the room.

Bruce gathered himself together and set his mind back to work as he turned back toward his desk. He walked behind it and was about to sit when the hollow marks in the carpet before him catch his eye again and it feels like he'd been stabbed in the heart. And, if that simple sight had such an effect on him, he was grateful that Alfred had the foresight to move that chair then, instead of later, to give the rug’s fibers time to recover and stand back up and disappear before Dick was there to see them. It might have seemed like a small gesture to some, but Bruce knew that, when you’re trying every minute of every day to cope with what feels like an unbearable situation, the smallest of things can sometimes make the biggest difference.

* * *

 

The doors to the elevator open and Dick rolls out onto the main floor and heads for Bruce’s study. He wasn’t exactly sure why he had requested to see him in private, but it doesn't bother him because there are some things he felt he needed to say and being able to say it with just Bruce present would make it a lot easier to get out. 

When he arrives at the study, he is about to simply go in; after all, Bruce was expecting him and the door was open. However, when he turns to pass over the threshold, he sees Bruce leaning against the patio door, gazing out into the darkness of the night.

Dick frowns and can hardly remember the last time he caught Bruce so deeply entwined within his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard his approach. He can’t help but to wonder what in the world his mentor might be thinking about that he’d allow his defenses to drop like that.  There is something almost fragile about what seemed like a private moment for Bruce, and Dick suddenly has the strangest feeling that he is intruding.

Instead of just entering, like he normally would have, Dick chooses to rap his knuckles lightly against the sturdy wooden door. Bruce turns at the sound and Dick muses that he must have been thinking about something that put him in one of his rare sentimental moods, because Bruce greets him with the slightest hint of a smile as he gestures toward his desk.

Dick pulls up to the open space in front of the desk and is slightly caught of guard when Bruce chooses to sit in the leather chair next to him, and not behind his desk, like usual. He angles his chair back and to the right a little to face Bruce and has a hard time keeping a frown of confusion from displaying across his face. In all honesty, he’s starting to become a little concerned with this uncharacteristic display of openness.

Bruce sits back in the chair, casually crossing one leg over the other. He places an elbow on the armrest and rests his jaw against his thumb, his index and middle fingers press slightly against his temple. After a moment he says, “I see you’ve decided to give the new chair a try.”

“Yeah…,” Dick looks down at his chair for a moment, nodding, “It’s pretty cool. The other one I was using was good; looked better than most, but this one is definitely better. It gets an A+ in the speed and maneuverability department.”

Bruce studies Dick as he speaks and then says, “You still hate it, don’t you?”

Dick looks off into space for a second and then shifts   his gaze back to Bruce, his expression is tight and he exhales shortly, “I’m really trying not to.”

Bruce nods, “I know. Give it a little more time, Dick. You’ll get there.” He hesitates for just a moment and then says, “I’ve been where you are. I remember it like it was just the other day. I remember the anger and I’ve visited the darker places in my mind, too.” He sits and watches his son struggle to keep his emotions concealed and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Dick, this is possibly the biggest physical battle you’ll ever have to endure. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You’re going to get through this.” Bruce reaches out and puts a hand over the fist Dick has clenched on his lap.

Dick looks up at the touch and swallows hard, nodding. “Yeah,” he forces a grin, “I keep hearing that tonight.”

Bruce sits back and graces him with a grin of his own, “You and Tim had a good talk?”

“Talk?” Dick looks up at the ceiling and laughs, “A good trouncing is more like it.” He chuckles and looks back at Bruce, “But, it was good. I needed it; guess I needed someone to give me a jolt to help me pull my head out of my ass.” He’s quiet for a moment and then says, “You know, you’re usually pretty astute about reading people. You just said you’ve been _here_.” Dick gestures to the chair, “You knew what was going on all those times I lost it over moving back to my place…”

Bruce looks at Dick, “I did.”

Dick shakes his head slightly, “Then why’d you play along? Why didn’t you just tell it like it was?”

“I knew you weren’t ready to leave. Deep down inside, you knew it too and that made you even more upset at your circumstance. You needed someone to be mad at. You needed an outlet for all the anger you were keeping trapped inside.” Bruce pauses and studies his son for a moment, “So, I became the impassive hardass that you hate and rode out the storm until you were ready for a change.”

Dick frowns, “So, what.., you allowed me to verbally abuse you and hurt you, just to ease some of my own pain?”

Clearly humored, Bruce smirks, “I’m pretty thick-skinned, Dick. There isn’t much that gets to me.”

“Right.” Dick says, and grins, knowing it’s not entirely true, but doesn’t call him on it. No doubt the big guy shrugs off 99% of the crap that gets thrown Bruce Wayne’s way, but Dick knows how much his family means to him; even if he’d never come right out and say it. It’s his one weakness and, even though he’d have you believe otherwise, the man bleeds just like anyone else.

* * *

Throwing the last of his clothes in a bag, Tim zips it shut and slings it over his shoulder. He pauses at the foot of his bed and looks around the room one last time. Satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything that he’d need while at Dick’s, he turns and heads down the hall toward the grand staircase.

Pausing at the top of the stairs for a moment, Tim takes a quick glance down the hallway in both directions and then leans forward over the railing to look and listen for any sign that Alfred might be nearby below. Deciding the coast was presumably clear, he takes a quick hop up onto the banister and rides it down to the main floor.

The highly polished, antique wood is the perfect surface for a quick thrill and Tim smiles at the sensation when gravity gently tugs against his insides. The bottom of the banister is slightly tilted and gives the perfect handhold for a forward flip, but Tim decides he’s pressed his luck enough with the older gentleman tonight and opts for a subtle, no-frills dismount. 

Touching his feet to the floor as quietly as he can after becoming slightly airborne, Tim adjusts the bag on his shoulder and quickly looks around. Though he may be Robin, and had conducted a quick reconnaissance operation before taking his forbidden descent, it’s hardly enough to ensure that the crafty butler won’t suddenly materialize. For, when it comes to rule breakers, his radar is as good as the Batman’s; especially when it involves antique furniture and handcrafted wooden banisters.

Satisfied that he won’t be getting another scolding, the teen jogs off toward the kitchen and adds his bag to the others stacked beside the door to the garage. Looking at their things packed up and ready to be relocated, Tim can’t help but to acknowledge a nagging pang of anxiety in his gut. They’ll be close to an hour away from Bruce and Alfred; and it’s going to be just him and Dick. Sure, Wally and Bart run at the speed of light and Superman is almost as fast. _But, still…, if something went wrong_  

Tim shakes off the feeling and reminds himself that he’s a BatBoy and his training has him ready and open for any situation. He can do this. Hell, if Dick can go through what he’s going through, the absolute LEAST he could do is to be there for him and support him in any way possible. No matter what.

Thrusting his insecurities to the side, he instead chooses to focus on positive thoughts. He's totally revved up and excited for his brother. He’s certain that getting Dick back his own life; to his home, friends and the bustle of the city, will help breathe new life back into him and will definitely be a positive element in his progress.

Tim smiles to himself while shoving most of a cookie into his mouth just as Alfred walks into the kitchen. “Where is everyone?” he asks around a mouthful. Alfred gives a look of disapproval, causing the teen to sheepishly wipe crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

“Master Bruce is still having a private conversation with young Master Dick in his study.”

Tim whistles, taking one of the bags Alfred is carrying and follows him through the large kitchen and into the garage, “That could be either really good or really _not_ good.”

Alfred nods knowingly as he places the final bag among the others in the back seat of Tim’s car. “Indeed. However, I don’t believe we’ve cause to fret over this particular _talk_ , Master Tim.”

As if on cue, Dick passes through the doorway from the kitchen and into the garage with Bruce close behind, the hint of a smile playing on the corner of his mouth from something Dick had just said.

Tim breathes a breath of relief and Alfred walks over to open the passenger door for Dick. He accepts Bruce’s offer to put the chair in the trunk and waits for Dick to get settled before bending down to say his goodbyes. “I do have to admit, that while I will miss your presence, as always, I will not miss buffing out the scuff marks from your tires on the marble floors.”

Dick reads between the lines of Alfred’s bemoaning and gives the handshake an extra squeeze. “Thanks for putting up with me, and for everything, Alfie.”

Alfred pats Dick’s hand with a warm smile, “Oh, I’m certain I’ll be seeing you before too long, Master Dick. That is, if you wouldn’t deny an old fool the need to come and check in on you from time to time?”

Dick smiles, “Aw, Alfred, you ol’e softy. You’re always welcome. You know that.”

Tim’s about to slide behind the wheel when he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. He turns to see Bruce offering him his other hand and accepts it with a smile.

“Thanks, Tim. Take care of him; make sure you let us know if you two need anything.”

“No problem, Bruce. Don’t worry. It’ll be cool.”

Bruce gives a nod of his head and hesitates, the father in him knows that to let got of Tim’s hand also meant letting go of his oldest, who was still so uncharacteristically vulnerable and in need of assistance and protection.

Tim senses as much and with an extra pump of the handshake, insists: “It’ll be cool.”

Bruce reads the truth from his partner and knows that Tim would move Heaven and earth to protect his brother. He reminds himself that this was what gave him the go-ahead to agree with Tim’s plan to finally get Dick out of the manor, and he finds the will to release his grip.

Closing the door, Tim cranks the engine and reaches for his seat belt as the radio comes alive.

Dick pauses as he’s putting his window down and swivels his head to slowly look over at his brother. “Really, Tim?”

Putting the car in gear, Tim glances over innocently, “What?”

Dick just looks at him and shakes his head. With a sigh, he selects Track 3 on the CD player, “This one’s not that bad.”

Alfred and Bruce stand at the end of the garage, watching as their boys descend down the long, winding driveway, and can hear the faint sounds of _The Wiggles_ music trailing after the car.

 _“... Uncle Noah’s ark is a madhouse now…”_  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I just want to say, I first wrote this chapter back around 2007 and I choose to use The Wiggles back then because I had a toddler that used to listen to The Wiggles CD in my car all the time. They were a heck of a lot more popular back then than they are now (do kids even know who they are these days?) also, I thought it might be the perfect TV show to captivate Lian; and, one that I could probably torture Roy with later. I've thought about replacing them with something more current and popular, but with all honesty, I was too lazy and wanted to keep it the way it was.
> 
>  **I borrowed The Wiggles without their expressed permission. I sincerely hope they don’t mind.


	4. Chapter 4

A couple of miles just outside of Gotham City limits, Tim tries to keep his attention on the dark, winding roads of Bristol. His mind is tumbling about as he thinks about the next few days. He is considering skipping a day of school on Monday. Today’s Friday– he looks down at the clock–okay, Saturday. That leaves only a couple of days for them to get settled before he’ll be gone for most of the day. They’ve got unpacking to do, grocery shopping, and a few errands that Dick talked about wanting to get done soon after getting home.

The past twenty-four hours have been mentally and physically taxing on his brother and Tim’s bound and determined to make sure he doesn’t overdo it.  Tim looks over at Dick as he considers the hour, and if he is reading his brother correctly, a major chunk of Saturday is going to be used up on sleeping and resting.

Not long into their drive, Tim had registered the flags that told him the events from that evening and night had begun to catch up with Dick. The first sign was how their conversation had started to lag. Dick’s rapid-fire comebacks were losing their punch and soon their delivery was a half-hearted effort at best.  Soon after, Dick started to adjust the car’s power seat as he tried to find a more comfortable position. Tim noted a direct correlation between Dick’s willingness to chat and how far the back of the seat was reclined. Moreover, in the few minutes it took for Dick to concede to laying the seat all the way back, he had stopped talking altogether.

Tim looks over at his brother again. It’s easy to tell that he’s in a moderate level of discomfort and Tim thinks about what Alfred had told him while Dick and Bruce were off having a private talk of their own.

Tim tilts the rear-view mirror down until he can see Dick. “Hey.”

Dick lowers the arm he has draped over his eyes and looks up at him.

“Need me to pull over and get you some meds?”

Dick sighs and rubs his forehead. “I’m not sure yet.”

Tim nods. He knows Dick is holding off on taking pain medication for as long as he can. It’s something they all do. Alfred had made that point specifically when he mentioned that he was concerned Dick had begun to push through the pain a little too much recently.

He looks at Dick in the mirror again, “Have you taken any pain meds today?”

When there is no response, Tim looks over his shoulder at his brother and then back to the road again. “Geeze, Dick…,” Tim says, merging onto the highway and then glances at the mirror. Dick's arm is draped over his eyes again.

“I don’t like taking pain medication either, bro. But, if I were dealing with an injury like _that_ , I don’t think I’d be fighting against the meds just yet.” When there’s no response, Tim’s eyes flick to the mirror again, “Gotta be smart about it. Right?”

They drive in silence for a couple of seconds before Tim shakes his head with a sigh. “Well, if you’d like to stop suffering needlessly, just let me know.”

Dick peeks out from under his arm and looks at Tim in the mirror like he’s crazy for a moment and then chuckles. “Oh, my God, Timmy... alright, alright. But, I think you’ve been hanging around with Alfred a little too much.”

Tim frowns as he processes that. He looks over his shoulder, checking for traffic, and then laughs out loud when it clicks. "I guess so,” he says while switching lanes and pulls onto the shoulder of the road. 

* * *

It was just after one in the morning when they arrive at Dick’s apartment complex. Tim pulls into the parking garage and parks in one of the reserved spots. He hangs the parking permit on his rearview mirror, turns the engine off and looks over at his brother. Dick had been quiet ever since they got back onto the road.

Tim turns in his seat, “You asleep?”

“Not really.” Dick lowers his arm and rubs his face. He pushes his hands against the bottom of the seat and cautiously lengthens and stretches his back. 

Tim takes off his seat belt and pops the trunk, “How’re ya holding up?”

“I’m good.” Dick answers as he elevates the seatback, “Definitely ready to get out of the car.”

“Well, let’s _git’er done_!” Tim says and gets out of the car.

Dick grins and shakes his head when Tim mimics one of Wally’s favorite sayings.

Tim pulls the chair out of the trunk, brings it over and sees Dick has a foot out of the car and was scooting to the edge of the seat. Opening the door as far as it will go, a clipped grunt grabs his attention and Tim bends forward, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let me help?”

Dick looks at him and Tim can tell he's about to decline, adamant on doing it himself. But, he must be as worn out as he looks, because Dick gives him a nod of acceptance.

Tim applies the wheel locks and waits for Dick to lift himself off the car seat long enough for him slip the transfer board under his hip.  He places the other end on the seat of his chair.

Facing his brother, Tim leans part way into the car, grabs a handful of the waistband of Dick's jeans at the hips, and gives his brother a boost in motion by gently lifting as Dick controls his movement from the car to his chair.

Tim takes the transfer board and places it back in the car. He's about to shut the door, but another grunt has him looking over his shoulder. Dick is pushing himself back into his seat and Tim bends forward to get his attention.

Dick glances up at him; his expression is a mix of discomfort and determination.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Dick answers the unspoken question with a nod as he brings his knee up to place his foot on the footbar.

“Alright, well,” Tim says, scratching the back of his head, “... how about we just get you upstairs and settled and then I’ll come back down for the bags?”

“I’m ok,” Dick says and closes the door. He moves toward the back of the car, “Even though this building is gated, I wouldn’t leave a backseat full of bags alone. You’re bound to come back to a busted window and our stuff missing.”

Tim looks at the bags and nods. “Then we load you up like a pack mule?”

Dick shrugs. “Sounds reasonable.”

* * *

They ride in the elevator in silence; both of them feeling drained. The doors open and Dick holds onto their bags as Tim pushes him out of the elevator and down the hall at a good clip. They round the corner just before his apartment and Dick thinks that Tim must have be somewhere off-world in his head because he has to take sudden, evasive maneuvers to keep from plowing down one of his neighbors.

Grabbing the wheels to his chair, Dick brakes hard to the left and curses when a couple of their bags tumble off his lap.

Tim is startled back to planet earth when Dick’s chair is wrenched from his grasp and stumbles as one of the wheels crosses his path. He pitches forward and his eyes widen as he registers that he's about to collide with his brother. Tim knows it would hurt Dick, and he's so busy trying not to fall against him, that he doesn't dodge the bags on the floor. The toe of his shoe is stuck in the handle of one of the duffel bags and he stumbles over the pile, reaching out for the wall, completely oblivious of the other person in the hall until he’s about to crash into him. Luckily, the other man grabs Tim by the arms in time to keep them from meeting head-on.

“Whoa, hermano!” the neighbor says, dropping the bag of trash he had been taking to the chute and rights Tim. “Close call,” he chuckles and picks up one of their dropped bags.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Tim replies, grabbing the other bag.

Dick groans inwardly as he swings his chair around to face the other two. He was really hoping that at this time of night they would make a clean getaway into his apartment without having to talk to anyone. He just wasn’t up for the act tonight.

He knows the story has been spun on the news about Dick Grayson’s “motorcycle accident” on the back roads of Gotham City while he’d been on his way to visit Bruce Wayne. Authorities were still looking for the hit-and-run driver. He also knows Jason has been bribed (or blackmailed) by Alfred into gallivanting around Gotham as Nightwing until he was back in the suit.

“Dick! Man, I’m glad to see you’re back. You look good, I mean…, you actually look pretty rough at the moment, but I hear you’re going to be ok?”

Dick smiles, and it's genuine. If he had to run into someone right now, he’s glad it’s his neighbor from two doors down. The guy was cool and they’d hung out more than a few times over beers and a football game.

“Yeah, Zane. I’m gonna be ok. This is just temporary,” he says, patting the wheels of his chair.

“Whew! That’s good to hear coming straight from you. I’ll tell ya, I was at the bar with Dave; you remember Dave, right?”

Dick nods.

“Anyway we’re shootin’ pool and he points to the TV when they flash your picture and he asks: _Ain’t that the guy you brought to the Super Bowl party at Keith’s?_ And, I look and…, Man! I couldn’t believe it!”

Dick’s friend rambles on and Tim doesn’t think the guy was ever going to let them go. Apparently, Dick was thinking the same thing because he throws him a sideways glance.

Tim gets the message loud and clear and a moment later, makes a show of not being able to contain a large yawn.

“Aww, geeze! Where’s my head? It’s the middle of the night! You guys look like you need to crash; quick. Look, just let me know if you need anything. Okay? Take care, dude. Catch ya later.” Zane says and smacks Dick on the arm, just a little too hard, while handing Tim the bag he’d been holding.

Dick winces as he’s jostled and clears his throat, “Will do, Zane. Thanks.”

“Man,” Tim says quietly as Dick’s neighbor continues down the hall, “That guy’s got energy, huh?”

Dick nods. “I should introduce him to Wally.”

Tim snorts while fishing his keys out of his pocket, “Oh man, I can only imagine the two of them in a room together.” He chuckles and turns the key in the lock. He takes the bags that are hanging off the corners of Dick’s seat, and a couple from his lap, and then follow him into the apartment.

“Okay, so, what else did Bruce alter?” Dick asks as he looks at how the deadbolt on his door has been re-positioned to his temporary new height.

“Just a few things. Kitchen sink was lowered, bathroom doorway widened… you know, just the necessary stuff. Nothing that can’t go back to normal later.” Tim answers as he closes the door and engages the deadbolt.

“When did he have all this done?” Dick asks, moving a little further into the foyer.

“Pretty much right away. He never planned on you staying at the manor until you were completely healed.”

After another minute of just standing in the entryway, Tim asks, “So..., you just want to crash…? You want to unpack some stuff, or do that tomorrow...?”

Dick looks up at his brother, smirks, and unceremoniously drops his bags next to the door and rolls off. Tim looks at the discarded duffel bags, shrugs, and then follows suit with his own.

He walks into the living room, plops down on the couch and stretches with a loud groan. “Man, I’m beat!” Tim yells toward the kitchen.

“Me too but, I’m kind of wired at the moment.” Dick shouts back.

“Yeah. Me too.” Tim replies mostly to himself as he looks around the room. He’s always liked Dick’s place. It’s got a completely different vibe than almost anywhere else. If Tim had to classify it, he would say it pulsed _freedom_. Freedom to be your own person; to do what you wanted and to make something of yourself.

Tim looks around again for a moment and then stops. He frowns, and then leans forward and looks over the back of the couch and then at room behind him. He turns back around a sits back, looking around again and thinks that Alfred must have been here recently. Not only because there isn’t a spot of dust to be seen on any of the surfaces, but also because Dick’s place is never this tidy.

Dick’s not a complete slob; but, c’mon. He’s a guy.

Tim’s suspicion is confirmed when Dick enters from the kitchen with a variety of munchies and proclaims: “Thank God for Alfred!”

Tim catches the soda that Dick tosses him and then the bag of chips. “Indeed.” Tim toasts Alfred with his drink and takes a long pull from the can. He muffles a large burp as Dick turns on the TV and starts flipping through the channels. They stumble upon an episode of MST3K and Tim chokes on his drink, shouting at Dick to stop.

Dick waits patiently for him to recover, but leans forward a little and gives his brother a look when tears start to roll down his face.

“You okay there, Tim?” Dick asks, handing him a napkin from a stack on the coffee table.

Tim cracks a grin, laughing as his coughing fit continues and nods while giving him the sign to hold on a minute. When he finally has himself mostly under control, he clears his throat and looks over at Dick. “Have you seen this one?” he asks while wiping tears from his face.

Dick shakes his head, munching on a handful of microwave popcorn. “I don’t think so.”

“Dude; it’s hilarious. BB and I caught it halfway through the other day…” Tim points at the TV.  “These guys are supposed to be grim reapers or something, and they're really bad at their job. It’s got classic slasher-style teenage acting and it’s a really, _really_ bad movie, which of course, makes for some of the best riffing. Crow and Servo just about killed us.”

A little while later, Tim picks a football that was on the end of the couch and begins to toss it to himself while they laugh over the movie. He looks over to Dick to say something and smiles when his brother raises his hand. Tim tosses him the ball and catches the return throw. Pretty soon after that, the movie is forgotten about as it plays in the background while the two slowly lengthen the distance between each other.

For the past thirty minutes, they were just a couple of brothers, tossing a ball back and forth and talking about everything from girls to Bruce’s brooding.

Tim teases Dick about how he’s tossing the ball like a girl and Dick calls him a shit head, saying it’s because the brace doesn’t let him move like he needs to.

It was the most normal and natural time with his brother that Tim has had in a _long_ time and he had practically forgotten about Dick’s injury. Until, the moment he screws up and under throws the ball. He’d been laughing about something and friggin’ lobbed it. The ball hits high on the side of Dick’s left thigh just right and sparks one of those spasms.

Dick sees the ball coming in short, but wasn’t paying close attention and misjudges how short it actually is. He curses under his breath when the tip of the football bounces off his leg. Not so much because of the sting of the impact, which he barely felt, but because of what he _could_ feel was coming.

The familiar sensation of a muscle beginning to seize makes him frown. He tries to get a jump on the cramp by massaging the spot, trying to convince the muscle to chill out.

Tim rounds the couch and remembers the last time Dick had an episode. It had been a while but he knows the spasms can be unpredictable and happen when a sensation engages the nerves below his site of injury. His out-of-whack spinal nerves try to send a message to his brain, but instead, the message hits a block and is sent back to the motor cells in his spinal cord. 

His therapist called it a reflex spasm.  His therapist also said it was going to happen sporadically throughout his healing.

Almost anything could set one off. Dick has gotten them from simply positioning his leg or using an ice pack on a knee he jammed into something. One time he got one after grazing the side of his thigh against the corner of Bruce’s desk while leaving in a huff after one of their arguments.

Or, you know, getting hit by an under thrown football.

Most times Dick could just stretch and massage the area to relax the muscle. But, sometimes they were so intense that he’d need a strong muscle relaxer.

Tim doesn't like how this one is looking.

Rounding the side of the couch, he takes a knee in front of his brother as he begins to rub his thigh, "You ok?"

He looks up at Dick when he doesn't get an answer and can tell by his expression and breathing that the spasm was getting worse. Tim suggests that they lay him down on the floor so he can help him stretch his leg.

Dick is about to agree, but instead laughs around a strong expletive as the muscle spasm intensifies and travels up past his hip with a hot, electrifying jolt. Groaning, he grabs his thigh with both hands. He’s trying to get a grip because he knows Tim’s saying something about just getting him to the floor; knows Tim doesn’t want to move him without his approval.

Dick also knows his brother is freaking out a little more each second that passes that he doesn’t answer. He hates making the teen worry and tells himself to concentrate and respond to what Tim’s saying. But, that thought is quickly overridden as another wave of pain radiates from his leg up to his lower back, and this time he cries out.

Tim makes an executive decision and grabs his brother by his upper arms and leans him forward enough to wrap an arm behind his back.  “Hold on, bro. Hang in there…” Tim says when Dick utters another deep groan as Tim lowers him to the floor and onto his right side.

“I’m getting the Norflex–-yes, Dick.” Tim says when his brother grabs his arm, shaking his head.

On the way down, Dick had grabbed a handful of his jeans near the side of his knee was now tugging on the fabric, trying to bring his knee up to his chest.  “Not yet…” his brother grinds out, “let me try and-–”

“And what, man? Stretch the muscle? I think we're past that option, Dick.”

Dick shakes his head again, “Just help me…” Dick looks up at him, _“... please.”_

Tim exhales with a huff and mutters something under his breath about him being just as bad as Bruce and holds the front of Dick’s knee.  He follows Dick's lead and gently pushes forward. They get a little over halfway there when Dick squeezes his eyes shut and cries out again, “Stop-stop-stop!! Ahh God, Timmy, stop…”

“That's it; I’m getting the shot.” Tim’s tone leaves no room for interpretation. He lowers Dick's leg back down to the floor and jumps to his feet, jogs over to their bags and pulls a few of Dick's to the side.

“Which one is it in?” He calls to his brother.

“The… _blue one.”_ Dick forces out.

“...The blue one…” Tim mutters to himself, looking at the bags in front of him, “They’re all blue, Dick!” He shouts back as he attacks the zipper on the first bag and dives in.

He's sweating by time he yanks the zipper open on the third one and begins to riffle through its contents with one hand while digging his commlink out of his front pocket with the other.  He jams it in his ear as he turns to the pile of bags, pulls out another one, and prays that Alfred was still up. He really, _really_ did not want to have to contact Batman.

Tim breathes a sigh of relief when Alfred answers the call and quickly fills him in on the situation. Even though Tim's trying to sound calm, Alfred must have picked up on his frantic state, because he speaks to him slow and calmly; like you would to a frightened child. Tim hates to admit it, but it helps.

“I can’t find it! We just got in and nothing's unpacked!” he exclaims, his voice cracks as his adolescent vocal cords betray him. He's trying not to panic, but it’s really freaking hard not to when your big brother is reduced to a moaning lump on the floor.

Tim knew that if they left the Manor, he would be the main person responsible to help his brother though some of the tight spots during his recovery. He expected there to be a few pretty rough times; he just really didn’t expect it within the first hour of their arrival. The meticulous side of him is furious with himself for just loafing around after they got in, instead of at least getting the essentials set up.

“You must remain calm, Timothy; keep a clear head if you are to be of any use to Master Dick. Now, go look in the kitchen; lower cabinet by the sink. There you’ll find a travel kit.”

Tim bolts for the kitchen, taking a flying leap over his brother on the way.

“Tim! What the hell?!” Dick growls through clenched teeth from the other room.

Tim rummages through the cupboard for a second and then jumps up, “I’ve got it! I’ve–-one sec!” Tim shouts as he runs back to his brother and hurtles over an overturned kitchen chair while tearing open an alcohol swab with his teeth.

“Okay, Dick; it’s okay…” Tim drops to his knees while pulling down on the waist of Dick's jeans enough to swab his hip with the wipe before carefully injecting the medicine. “Okay; relaxer’s in.” he says while he caps and tosses the used syringe onto the coffee table next to the stack of napkins. He looks at them and then grabs a handful to wipe the sweat from his brother’s face.

Alfred’s voice sounds in Tim’s ear, “You should be seeing results about now."

“Yeah… Okay, yeah. It’s working.” Tim answers a bit out of breath from the adrenaline rush and watches with relief as Dick begins to relax.

“Very good, young sir. I shall remain on the line with you for the moment.”

Tim nods, “Okay, Alfred; thanks.” With an exhausted grunt, he plops down on the floor just behind his brother. “I’m sorry it took so long, Dick. I couldn’t find the med kit in any of your bags.”

“S’okay.”

Tim looks over at his brother. “You know, saying 'the blue one' isn’t much help when all of your bags fall pretty closely within the blue spectrum.” Tim gripes, but then lifts an eyebrow when he barely receives a reply. “You okay, man...? Hey, Dick? Alfred, he’s–-” Tim starts to ask as he leans over his brother’s side to see his face.

“No need to fret, young sir, all is well-–”

“But, he’s really out of it,” Tim interrupts while observing how Dick wasn’t paying any attention to him and actually seemed content to zonk out, laying right there on the hardwood floor. “He’s really dopey all of a sudden; it doesn’t usually hit him like this.”

“Master Dick’s current condition is perfectly normal, considering all our dear boy has done and gone through today. It has been quite a tiring day for the young master, not to mention the toll having such an episode has on one’s body. Just go on now and get him to bed and he will sleep it off. Take great care in assisting him and, I assure you, all will be fine.”

“Will do, Alfie. Thanks for the help. I don’t know what we’d do without you!”

“Good night, young sir.” Alfred replies warmly.

Tim turns off the comlink and tosses it on the coffee table. He stands there for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at his brother, wondering what he should do next.

He would really rather not move him, after all he’d been through tonight. But, he knows it was a poor position to stay in and would cause more issues for him later. 

Tim considers bringing him to the bed, but knows if he were to carry Dick that far, it probably wouldn’t feel that great for him. He looks over at the wheelchair, but dismisses that idea, knowing that it’d be just as bad, with all the maneuvering in and out and then onto the bed. He settles for a little rearranging of the living room and moves the coffee table and Dick’s wheelchair out-of-the-way and then scoots the couch over to where his brother is lying before leaving to collect Dick’s pillow and comforter from his bedroom.

After setting up the couch, Tim gently shakes Dick’s shoulder to wake him. He wants him to be aware of what’s going on, instead of waking suddenly to a jolt of pain and possibly hurting himself even more.

When he doesn’t get even a hint of acknowledgement, Tim switches tactics and lightly taps his brother’s face. That earns him a pinched brow and a grunt of displeasure. Tim sighs and wishes that for once his brother wouldn’t sleep like the dead, even without the drugs.

He taps his brother’s face again and speaks louder this time. “Hey, Dick. You with me?”

Another grunt.

“Sorry, bro, but I’ve gotta move ya. You can’t stay like this all night.”

Dick frowns as he tries to process what Tim is saying and finally forces his eyes to open.

“You hear me?” He can’t help but to smile as he speaks loud and slow, “We gotta move you off the floor. I need you to sit up.”

Tim figures the partial nod is as good as the communication is going to get, so he takes his brother by the arm and helps him to sit up. Dick looks over when his arms bumps against the side of the couch.

“I figured you could just crash here for a while.”

Dick nods and starts to release the Velcro straps on his brace. Tim gives him a hand in removing it and Dick begins to move as if he’s going to maneuver himself onto the furniture.

Tim steps in and does most of the work for him and is relieved when the transfer goes off with minimal discomfort on Dick’s part.

Slipping his arm out from behind his brother’s back, Tim starts to stand up, but halts when he notices Dick’s looking at him. He pauses because Dick looks like he wants to say something, but a couple of seconds pass and Tim asks, “You okay?”

Dick blinks, “Don’t feel bad.”

“...Okay.”

Dick grabs his arm, “Not your fault, Tim.”

Tim’s brow draws together with confusion. Dick’s looking at him much too intensely for him to be talking about the delay in getting the Norflex.  He searches his brother’s eyes before responding, “I know.” Then, because his brother looks genuinely concerned for him, touches his shoulder and adds, “I’m okay, bro.”

That seems to ease whatever loopy, drug-induced thought his brother was having, because Dick closes his eyes and relaxes.

Tim raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at the odd exchange as he moves to the end of the couch to untie Dick’s sneakers. He’s loosening the laces when he hears Dick grumble something about being able to do it himself. Shaking his head, Tim smiles and gently removes the shoe with a chuckle. “Not tonight, you’re not.”

Standing back, Tim takes a final assessment of his brother's position and then gently straightens him out just a bit before covering him with the blanket.

Yawning, he scrubs his hands through his hair as he looks around at the chaos. He takes a second to tidy up as little as possible before grabbing his own pillow and blanket and crashes on the floor beside his brother.

Sleep comes swiftly once his head hits the pillow.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Drifting in and out of a fitful sleep while trying to keep an ear open for any sign that his brother might need him, Tim begins to dream. It is a dream that he has been having almost every night for weeks, and he was helpless once it drags him in. He had tried to change it many times from within the dream, but was always unsuccessful and always wakes up in the same way: sitting bolt upright with a hoarse cry; panting and drenched in sweat.

This one starts out like all the others.

Nightwing and Robin are flying through the rooftops of Gotham City while Batman was holding a debriefing with the Justice League. Everything had run smooth that night and better than clockwork. They had stopped various small crimes and it looked like the night was going to wrap up moderately uneventful.

They were sitting in the Batmobile, having a snack, when the police scanner reported a disturbance by the 31st street subway entrance. From the descriptions, it sounded like Killer Croc had surfaced, and was pissed.

Nightwing engages Batmobile and they speed off to the last location sighted and take to the rooftops to get a better view of the situation. They find nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary other than, for reasons unknown, Croc had surfaced near the museum and had set off the alarms in his attempts to break in.

With the GCPD currently tied up with a hostage situation across town, Nightwing and Robin decide they could take him down now, before he smashed through the iron gates inside the museum doors and destroyed whatever got in his way to find whatever it was that he was after.

Dealing with Croc was no big feat. He had brute strength but he was easy to out maneuver and definitely easy to out think. They have all taken him down alone at some point in the past so, the boys agree that they could have him wrapped up and back to Blackgate in no time.

And, that’s exactly how the dream progresses until they get Croc cornered. The reptile-man picks up a park bench and winds up to throw it at Robin just as the young hero throws a bola. Robin’s cord is wrapping around Croc’s legs as Nightwing leaps off the Museum’s ten-foot-high stonewall. He lands on the back of Croc’s neck and pulls out a Taser that is modified to be strong enough to take down the big boys. His suit is insulated, so he’s not concerned about riding the lightning with Croc.

However, it malfunctions and doesn’t give Croc the full juice. Instead of knocking him out like Nightwing expects, it just pisses him off. Just as Nightwing was realizing the malfunction, Croc reaches back, grabs him and brutally hurls him against a nearby light pole.

The hero cries out and goes down hard.

“Nightwing!” From where Robin was standing, he couldn’t see what happened after Croc had thrown his brother, but he knows it’s was bad when he hears Dick cry out in pain a heartbeat before his comm reverberates with the transmission, making his ear ring. “Nightwing, report!”

The teen hesitates. His brother is down and isn’t responding. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to rush to his side. However, one look at Croc tells him the villain is seconds away from snapping the bola. Keeping a sharp eye on Croc, Robin tries his brother again while digging another bola out from his belt.

“Nightwing! Answer me!” Robin shouts into his commlink. There is a sound of someone landing behind him and he spins, posed to attack. He is briefly stunned to see his wayward brother.

Red Hood stands up from the crouch he lands in and gives Robin a push toward Nightwing’s direction. “Go to him,” he says as he walks purposely toward the raging reptile-man. “Link me to your comm. I’ll take care of the walking handbag.”

Robin doesn’t hesitate. Tonight he will not take the time to warn Hood about not killing and he doesn’t listen to the nagging need to babysit and make sure the obstinate vigilante does things by Batman’s code of ethics. He just bolts off to find his brother.

The teen doesn’t have to go far. Just on the other side of the museum’s stonewall, he finds what he’s looking for. On the sidewalk, Nightwing is laying on his side at the base of a street lamp.

“Nightwing!” Robin yells, sprinting over to his partner and drops down to his side. “Where’re ya hurt?” he asks, and his face pinches with concern, for if the older hero heard him, he gave no indication. The only response he receives is a low, desperate groan.

“Is it your ribs, Wing? Did Croc get a good squeeze? Did he dislocate a joint?” Robin asks while trying to look his brother over.  “You gotta help me, man. I didn’t see what happened!”

Nightwing still doesn’t respond, and instead, pushes off the ground and starts to roll onto his back. “Hold on, Nightwing,” Robin says and places a hand to the older man’s arm. He doesn’t want his brother to move, but he sees Nightwing is moving both his arms and legs while trying to roll onto his back and Robin thinks he needs to see if Nightwing might have been impaled or something, so he grabs his brother’s arms and carefully guides him onto his back.

He inspects the hero’s front, expecting to find a dislocated joint, broken limb or a gushing open wound, but doesn’t find anything external.  He reaches down and retracts the lenses on his brother's mask,

“Nightwing, tell me where it hurts. Let me help you!”

Nightwing's eyes are squeezed shut and his breathing is choppy and erratic. Every exhale is a tight grunt, and he still is not responding. Robin begins to feel down his brother’s arms and then his torso, trying to see if putting pressure on any of his internal organs will elicit a response from the hero and maybe he can figure out where he’s is injured. He exhales in frustration when his probing does not give him any clues as to where the man is suffering from.

After a minute, he grips Nightwing’s shoulders and shouts in his face, “You gotta tell me what’s wrong so I can help you!”

Nightwing arches his back and his hands come up to grip his brother’s arms hard. His face twists and he groans loudly again before answering through clenched teeth, his voice rough with agony: _“... my…, my back. Fuck! Robin— My back!”_

Robin freezes and his heart jumps into his throat and he finds himself uncharacteristically without a plan. He can hear Jason yelling at him over the comm, but he can't make it out. It’s like he is too far away.

It rattles him badly to see Dick in such a state. In all their years fighting alongside each other, Tim has never seen him unable to compartment away at least some of the pain. Not like now. Now, he’s expressing an unabashed and open, full-out suffering.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he processes the sound of rapid footsteps coming his way and he barely registers it as he’s shoved aside. Tim feels like he’s standing outside of his body as he watches Red Hood drop to the ground beside their fallen brother.

Having heard Nightwing and Robin's communications, the anti-hero immediately swings one knee over Nightwing, straddles his hips, and presses his knees firmly against them to restrict their movement. He grabs Dick's wrists and pins them down to his chest saying, “Nightwing; don’t move. You _have_ to stay still.”

Robin watches as Nightwing tries to arch his back and Red Hood presses down harder in order to keep their brother from moving. "Don't move!"

_“Ground’s on fire, Hood… get’offa me!”_ Nightwing responds and grunts as he tries to hurl Red Hood to the side, but then turns his head and cries out in pain.

Red Hood keeps pressing controlled pressure down upon his brother and leans in close, “It’s not the ground, Wing. Croc fucked up your back. So, you’d better stop squirming and fighting against me; unless, you _like_ the idea of never being able to walk again.”

Apparently, that information gets through to Nightwing because he stops fighting against Red Hood. Instead, he presses the back of his head against the sidewalk, the cords in his neck strain as he forces out a deep, anguished groan through clenched teeth.

“Robin!” Red Hood snaps at him from over his shoulder. His voice is tight and the authority it carries snaps the teen back into combat mode. His medic training takes over and Robin is quick to drop to his knees opposite Red Hood. He places his hands on either side of Nightwing’s head, bracing it and preventing him from moving.

“Morphine; 10mg and then 5mil every five minutes until he mellows out.” Red Hood instructs and then turns his focus back to their older brother who is writhing beneath him again. “NIGHTWING! You dumbass; Stay! Still!

“Call Oracle,” Red hood voice-activates his comm and watches as the teen pulls a needle from their brother’s shoulder. He tells Nightwing the happy juice has been delivered and to just grip it for another couple of seconds while it kicks in.  

Robin sets a timer on his gauntlet for five minutes and then resumes bracing his brother’s head and neck while looking over Nightwing to Red Hood. “Croc?”

“He ain’t going nowhere—she's not answering me. You try.”

Robin activates his comm, "Oracle! Code white, I repeat, code white! Come in!"

Red Hood looks at Robin, "Code white?"

"Critical Injury." The teen answers without looking up and moves his fingers to check his brother's pulse.

Red Hood keeps looking at Robin, "That's code CR10"

"Not for a while now."

Red Hood huffs, "Well, that's just great. Would have been helpful if someone would have told me."

Robin looks up and tries not to smile. There is something amusing about the notoriously vicious Red Hood being put out that he wasn't notified of a Bat clan policy change. "You hardly ever grace us with your presence and, you aren't exactly a team player, Hood." 

Red Hood tilts his head, "What the hell do you call this?"

Robin stares at Red Hood for a second. "Helping your brother."

Nightwing moans, and his breathing kicks up a notch as he struggles to tug his arms free from Red Hood's grasp.

Robin talks to him, tries to calm his brother, "It's ok, bro; don't move. You've got to be still." he says, and the teen has to use his strength to keep him from tossing his head from side to side. “Don’t fight me, Nightwing.” Robin says and looks up at Red Hood. “Something’s wrong.”

“Whad’ya mean _something’s wrong_?” Hood asks incredulously, “A whole fuckin’lots wrong.”

Robin shakes his head when Nightwing tries to arch his back again, “No. He’s fighting against us again; this is... something different—Nightwing!” The teen shouts when his brother tries to raise his head and sit up. He hovers inches over his brother’s face. “Nightwing. What’s going on? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Nightwing’s eyes are squeezed shut and he’s sucking in irregular breaths through clenched teeth, _“My legs…”_ he stops and his features twist even more from the pain as he tries to toss his head to the side again. _“God…, something’s wrong with my legs…”_

Robin snaps his head up to look at Red Hood, ”Are you pressing against his legs?”

“I ain’t fucking touchin’ his legs!”  He growls while straining against Nightwing to pull his wrist back to his chest.

Robin leans to the side to look around Red Hood and sees Dick slowly jerking his legs every couple of seconds. Something’s off about the way he’s moving, how he’s trying to push off the ground, but doesn’t bring his knee up high enough. It gives Robin a dreadful feeling.

He looks back at Red Hood, “Maybe he’s got a busted hip; maybe with you pressing against them, it’s causing him more pain.”

“Maybe,” Jason grunts as he presses Nightwing’s wrists to his chest again.

“I could check—“

“No.” Red Hood’s voice is throaty when he interrupts.

“But, if we can ease any of his suffering—

“No!”

Robin glares at his brother.

Red Hood looks up and swears, “Look, kid. I don’t like the idea of possibly causing him to hurt anymore than you do. But, right now, if his back is as fucked as I think it is, it’s way more important for you to stay right there and brace his head—Oracle, damn it, come in!”

“Red Hood. Get off this line.”

Robin is relieved to hear Oracle and knows Red Hood used the Bat clan party line when he hears her annoyed response though his own comm. Help will be coming soon.

Looking down at his brother, Robin frowns with concern at how much Nightwing is trembling. It’s clear that he is trying to breathe through the pain, but it’s also evident that his meditation techniques are not working. The hero’s hair is quickly becoming soaked in a cold sweat and the trembling his body is going through has his breathing coming and going in shuddering gasps.

Red Hood is demanding to be patched through to the Justice League and, with a minute twenty left on the timer, Robin wishes he could hold onto his brother’s hand to help him ride out the pain until he can give him another dose of morphine.

Nightwing’s body trembles beneath Robin's gloved hands and he quickly removes his cape and snakes it between Red Hoods arms, covering Nightwing's torso as best as he can before gently tucking it the slightest bit under Nightwing's arms and sides. 

Nightwing looks up at him and Robin grimaces sympathetically at the level of pain that is etched across his features. His breathing is too shaky and looking into his pleading, blue eyes, Robin can _feel_ the agony and fear his brother is experiencing.

“Hold on, Wing. Help’s on the way.” Tim says, leaning in close and locks onto Dick’s gaze, “Me and Hood are right here. We’re not going anywhere. We are going to get you through this.”

“Look, Red…,” Robin shifts his attention back to his other brother, “I’m not going to get into a pissing match with you about why I’m using your Member’s Only Bat frequency. What I _will_ say is: Nightwing is down and needs a GL for immediate transport to Star Labs. So, unless you want to go shopping for matching wheelchairs with Golden Boy..., get me the _fucking_ JLA.”   

* * *

“Breathe with me, Nightwing. You’ve got to think past the pain. C’mon; gotta bring your heart rate down a little.” Robin coaches as he injects a second syringe into his brother's shoulder.

Robin can tell the opioid was beginning to take the edge off, but knows Dick would still need another dose. He was still fighting against the pain too much, and when he doesn't respond again, Robin is stunned when Red Hood reaches up with one hand and releases the catches on the side of his helmet, yanks it off, and flings it to the side. .

Retracting the lenses on his mask, Jason leans in close enough to his brother for their noses to touch, “Dick. Look at me.”

Robin is surprised to see this level of commitment from Jason, and doesn’t dare move for fear of scaring the moment away.

When Nightwing opens his eyes again, he’s clearly startled to be looking into Jason’s green eyes. That shock pushes past the pain consuming the older brother, and he seems able to focus for a moment.

_“... Jay?”_

His name floats past his brother’s lips barely above a whisper and Jason squeezes the wrists he’s pinning, “Yeah, Dick. I’m here. Focus on me.” He looks quickly to Robin, “How much longer?”

Robin checks the timer on his gauntlet: “Three minutes, twenty-three.”

Red Hood leans in close again to fill Nightwing’s line of sight, “Hang on.  Batman and GL are on the way. Be here any second now. Breathe through it, man. C'mon, you're stronger than this.”

Nightwing tries a couple breaths but it was evident he can’t concentrate and laughs. It sounds more like wheezy huffing.

_“Really... screwed it up this time, didn’t I?"_

“You?” Jason scoffs. “The Golden Boy? Mess something up...?”

Dick screws his face together and grunts. _“It’s... bad. Isn’t it?”_

Jason frowns, “You’ve had worse. You’re going to be fine.”

Now it was Dick’s turn to scoff, “ _Guess that depends—”_ inhaling sharply, he clenches his eyes shut, _“—on your definition of ‘fine’, Jaybird.”_ Dick opens his eyes again and his expression is grim.

_“I… I can’t move my legs anymore.”_

Jason swallows hard at this new development in his brother’s condition, but his expression does not falter. His face hardens and his demeanor is unshakeable.

“That doesn’t mean shit! Your system is all fucked up right now. Just wait until you get looked over before you start thinking the worst.”

Nightwing closes his eyes and then looks at his brother through a couple of long blinks and grins, _“Not bad, Hood. I... could almost believe you.”_ Nightwing says, the last couple of his words slurring together.

“Nightwing!” Red Hood shouts when the man under him closes his eyes and the body he has been fighting against is stripped of its tension.

When Red Hood snaps his head up to look at him, Robin sees the briefest expression of genuine concern melt into understanding at the sight of him putting away another used morphine syringe. “You can probably get off him now. I think he’s out.” he says, noticing how Jason is trembling slightly. Tim knows it’s because for the past 10 minutes, every muscle in his body had been straining from holding continual counter pressure against their brother’s efforts to fight against the pain.

Red Hood braces a shaky arm against the ground and pushes himself to the side, landing stiffly on his hip, and braces himself with a hand against the sidewalk. With knees bent, the man brings his other arm up lays it across the top of his knee as he leans his head back and takes a deep breath, thinking about how badly he needs a cigarette. And a drink.

Robin moves in to take Nightwing’s vitals again. He’s about to ask Jason to get the emergency blanket from the Batmobile, but then finally sees the distant glow from GL’s ring.

In that instant, the helmet is back on and Red Hood stumbles to his feet. He curses when his knees act as if they’re made of jelly, and casually leans against the light pole until the weakness passes. He watches the Green Lantern land, and the bubble transporting Batman dissolve as he makes quick strides toward the trio.

Red Hood turns toward Lantern, and even though he knows he can’t see it because of his helmet, fixes him with a death glare. “You sure took your sweet time in getting here. If I wasn’t certain you were the best choice in keeping him immobile during transport to a medical facility…”

Hal Jordan was standing next to Batman and waits for him to pull his protégé away from Nightwing’s side, and then begins to scan the fallen hero for injuries. “Sorry about the delay, but it was unavoidable. I was the only Lantern in earth’s quadrant and I was in Indonesia, helping to contain a mudslide. Had to wait for backup.”

If Batman is surprised to see Red Hood on the scene, he doesn't show it. “What happened?” He asks, looking between his partner and former partner.

“Killer Croc.” Red Hood answers, pushing himself off the pole and tosses Nightwing’s faulty Taser at Batman. “You need to calibrate your shit.”

Batman captures the device in one hand and looks up sharply at Red Hood. “Explain.”

“Wingster over there,” Hood nods toward the man lying on the sidewalk, “was using it to put Croc down and it shorted out on him or something; zapped lizard boy just enough to royally piss him off. Croc snatched him up like a fucking rag doll and whipped him against the light pole here.”

Batman frowns and looks at the light pole and then down at the Taser in his hand. He looks to Robin for confirmation. When the teen nods in agreement at what Red Hood had told him, he sets his jaw, putting the item away for later inspection. “Where. Is. Croc?”

Batman’s voice dips to that "chewing gravel" tone, and Robin thinks that for tonight, it was probably a good thing that Red Hood subdued the villain, instead of Batman. He was about to explain that he was tending to Nightwing while Hood took care of him, but his brother spoke up again.

“He’s down for the count and contained. Hey, don’t give me that look,” Red Hood snaps at Batman. “I didn’t _kill_ him. Okay? Although, he'll probably wish I did when he wakes up.”

“Where are you going?” Batman asks as Red Hood walks past him and fires a grapnel to the top of the stonewall surrounding the museum.

“I’ll go dump Croc on GCPD’s porch steps,” Hood pauses and looks over his shoulder at Nightwing and then to his former mentor. “Just get him fixed up.”

“You can send the car back to the cave on autopilot when you're finished.” Batman says, knowing his deviant boy would appreciate avoiding an awkward meeting with Alfred tonight.  Thanks to Dick’s persistent attempts to bring Jason back into the fold, things had been… improving, and Bruce decides to trust Jason with the task.

Red Hood gives a nod, retracts his line, and disappears over the other side of the wall.  

Green Lantern’s light morphs into a backboard and neck brace to stabilize Nightwing and prepare him for transport. “Ready?”

At Batman’s go-ahead, GL extends the light of his ring to surround the three heroes and watches as his friend crouches down to monitor his partner’s vitals with an uncharacteristic tenderness that most heroes will never see from the Dark Knight.

Batman looks over to his youngest and can practically feel the fear and worry radiate off the boy. He places a hand to Tim’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze and looks up at Hal, “What did your scan reveal?”

“Ring reports internal trauma: spinal ligament tears and fractures to vertebrae T11 through L4—his spinal cord _has_ been injured, but is still intact. Looks to be compromised by bone fragments in the spinal column. Some minor internal bleeding."

Robin moves in and gently straightens his cape, spreading it out to cover Nightwing as much as possible. He is desperate to help his brother, and does anything he can make Dick more comfortable. Sitting cross-legged, close to his brother’s side, Tim reaches out and takes hold of Dick’s hand.

Green Lantern takes them up into the upper atmosphere and Tim watches as Gotham shrinks in size beneath them and then the earth is just a blur as they rocket through the sky toward the S.T.A.R Labs medical facility in Palo Alto.

* * *

Robin watches Batman speak to the lead neuro-scientist at S.T.A.R Labs. Shortly after arriving at the medical facility, his brother was whisked away to be prepped for surgery, leaving Robin with a gnawing ball of anxiety in his gut. He knew it would be hours before they heard an update, but from what he’s overheard so far, the team is optimistic of a favorable outcome.  Of course, they cannot be certain about anything, until after the surgery is complete.

A few minutes pass and a petite woman wearing surgical scrubs walks briskly down the bright hallway, her sneakers giving off a slight squeak against the buffed white linoleum. She is introduced as the top neurosurgeon at the facility, which means she’s the top neurosurgeon in the country _. If she works here, she’s probably one of the top three in the world._ Robin deduces.

More words are exchanged between the three and then there is a mutual break. Batman turns and walks toward Robin, he puts a hand to the back of his partner’s shoulder and Robin instinctively turns in the direction his mentor is walking, easily falling into stride with him.

“What did they say?” the teen asks under his breath as Batman brings them around a corner and down another hallway.

“In a minute.” Batman says and pushes open a door to the back stairwell.

They descend in silence and Robin has to chew on the inside of his cheek to keep from shoulder-checking Batman into the wall and demanding information from him. The ever-faithful soldier in him would never willingly act out with such blatant insubordination, but the brother in him simply didn’t give a damn, and Robin’s been fighting against the latter persona for hours. He can feel him beginning to take over.

Three floors down, they exit the stairwell and walk down another hallway. The door Batman stops at has an electronic keypad, into which he enters a code. A hidden panel in the wall slides open and Batman leans in. Robin watches as blue lines dance across his eye for a couple of seconds. There is the sound of a latch disengaging, the panel slides closed, and Batman opens the door.

Holding the door open, Batman steps out of the way. Robin looks at him for only a second and then enters the secured room. At first glance, there is nothing special about the windowless room. There is what could be a conference table in the center, a whiteboard on the far wall, a small sink along the south wall with cabinets and extra chairs. However, appearances can be deceiving, and knowing his mentor, a push of a button on his belt and the entire room probably morphs into a secret Batcave.

Robin stands in the middle of the open space behind the conference table while Batman enters a code on the wall. The door lock engages and the little window in the door automatically shifts into an opaque white filter.

Batman turns around and Robin takes a step forward, “So? What did they say?”

“Did you hear Green Lantern when he gave me the ring’s diagnostic?”

Robin nods. “Yeah. Was it accurate?”

"It appears so." Batman sighs and turns around. He takes a few steps toward the conference table, leans forward, and grips the back of one of the chairs. He is quiet for a moment before elaborating, "Two of the four fractures to Dick's vertebrae are burst fractures. There is a procedure to repair the fragments that won't cause him to lose his range of motion, but it's experimental. It uses alien tech, but so far it's had very promising results. With it, he should make a full recovery. I've given them consent perform the surgery."

Robin steps forward when his mentor stops speaking and, feeling that more is to come, puts a hand on his arm, "Batman?"

The Dark Knight takes a breath and his grip tightens on the back of the chair, "Bone fragments within Dick's spinal column from the burst fractures and the trauma caused by the impact with the light pole have compromised his spinal cord and caused a condition called spinal shock. It's a temporary condition, but until it fades, he will have no feeling below his site of injury. For the time being, Dick is paralyzed."

Robin's chest heaves as he processes what he's just heard and fights back tears of frustration. "Wait, but you said it was a temporary condition. How long until it goes away?"

Batman clears his throat, "That they don't know, but from the extent of his injury, they're estimating it could take as long as twelve months."

_Twelve months_ , the words echo in his head, and then Robin thinks that's just until Dick can regain the use of his legs. Then he'll have to go through rehab and then reconditioning training to regain the strength and agility that he'll lose in that time.

He can't even begin to imagine what a devastating impact this news will have on his brother. How will they tell him that? How will they let him know that he won't be able to walk, or ride a motorcycle or fly through the air performing flips and so many other acrobatic stunts that so wholly defines the man? How will they tell him that Nightwing is going to be grounded for quite a long time?

Batman straightens up and turns to face Robin. “I want a report on what happened tonight. What events transpired that led up to Nightwing’s injury?"

Robin folds his arms across his chest and looks down at his feet. He really doesn't want to think about what happened tonight, and to be honest, even though he knows they weren't at fault, he feels a little nervous about what Batman might say. Dick's paralyzed and, be it their fault or not, it's because of what happened tonight.

"Robin, a report." Batman says again.

Robin takes a deep breath and, knowing he can't avoid the order, looks up at his mentor, “It was like Hood said, we—me and Nightwing; Hood wasn’t there at that time—we almost had Croc down.” Robin begins, “And, he—we were...

“Damn it! I don’t _know,_ Batman. One second we had the upper hand…,” Robin trails off and begins to pace as he tries to put the pieces together.

He takes a breath and starts over, “We almost had Croc down. Nightwing jumped on his shoulders and tried to tase him, but something went wrong. It didn’t incapacitate him like it should have. Croc grabbed Nightwing, and he—” Robin takes a breath and swallows.

“It all happened so fast. I don’t think Dick had a chance to evade the snatch... we expected him to go down hard, ya know? But, Croc grabbed him, had him by the shoulders, kind of upside down in his grasp, and he slung him to the side. I didn’t see where. I couldn’t see where he landed.” Robin frowns and chews his bottom lip as he thinks.

“And, then suddenly Red Hood shows up, says he’ll take care of Croc—told me to help Nightwing and I took off in the direction Croc tossed him. I didn’t see him at first, but then I jumped the wall and I found him there, on the ground on the other side.” He thinks, “Sort of face down and—”

Robin stops pacing and tilts his head, dissecting the details in the memory as his mind plays the incident back in slow motion. 

“And, he was trying to—” Tim’s words die in his throat and he stares off into space for a second. 

_"No."_ He speaks the word with the slightest of breath and begins to shake his head. His heart pounds in his chest and his lungs forget how to breathe.  He is too hot and freezing cold all at once, as he fits together the final pieces of what had happened.

“No.” He says again louder; adamantly rejecting the truth that his mind has calculated. Pressing his hands against his head, he staggers back, and doesn't notice how Batman takes a step toward him with a hand outstretched.

_“No, no, no, no... No!”_ He moans and doubles over, fingers dig through his hair and his hands tighten into fists as he continues to shake his head in denial. He’s taking gasping breaths and his head is beginning to swim. He has to fight to keep from getting sick.

Too much air; he’s beginning to hyperventilate. He tries to regain control of his body, but he is swimming in a sea panic and can’t find his way to the surface. 

Batman grips him by his biceps and tries to tell him something. A command. Probably ordering him to calm down and regain control of his emotions. Robin just shakes his head vehemently. Pressing a hand against his mentor’s chest, he pushes away from him. He turns while releasing the clasp on his cape and tears the mask from his face. They slip from his fingers and fall to the floor.

Suddenly, he is suffocating within his uniform. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and his breathing is choppy as he fumbles frantically with the catches on his chest plate before ripping it off and tossing it to the floor along with his gloves.

Grabbing the back of his neck, he tilts his head up toward the ceiling and squeezes his eyes closed. The darkness behind his lids lasts briefly before events from earlier that night flash through his mind, bombarding him with a probability he just cannot accept.

A wave of nausea is the only warning he gets before a burst of bile shoots up the back of his throat and has him bolting for sink.  Gripping the counter, Tim throws his head into the sink and wretches repeatedly. Stomach acid burns the back of his nose and his stomach spasms so intensely, it feels like it's actually trying to turn itself inside out.

At some point, he feels Batman reach over him and water begins to pour into the sink. A moment later, a cool, wet cloth is placed over the back of his neck.

Tim leans against the sink for a few seconds, taking deep breaths. When he's certain that he’s done, he uses the water to rinse his mouth out. He spits a few times, turns off the water, and slowly stands upright.

A strong grip on his arm guides him to a nearby chair. "Sit." Batman orders and gently pushes him down. Tim complies and slumps into the chair. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and hangs his head.

Batman takes a knee in front of him and grabs his shoulders, "Tim, What is it?”

Tim opens his eyes and looks directly into the concerned face of Bruce Wayne. 

“Tim. Tell me.”

Tim stares into his father’s eyes and can’t stop the tears that spill down his cheeks. Bruce has a firm hold on his shoulders, and that grounds him; gives him something to focus on.

He works his throat a few times before he can swallow and then takes in a shuddering breath. He forces the words out as best as he can, but Bruce still has to lean in to hear his choked statement.

“ _... roll over... h-he was trying to roll over, and I—I helped him. I **helped** him to roll over!”_

Bruce’s jaw tightens and his lips press together. He is a smart man and Tim knows that was all he had to say for him to understand why he was slowly dying inside.

“Tim. Look at me.” Bruce commands with a full-on Bat tone. “I know what you’re thinking and you need to stop. We don’t even know what his prognosis is yet—”

“Didn’t you hear me?!” Eyes wild with panic, Tim clutches onto Batman’s cape and gasps, “I let him move! Dick had a… _fucking_ back injury, and I let him move! 

Bruce releases his hold on the boy and the teen jumps up to pace a tight line, anxiously running a hand through his hair as words begin to spill from his mouth.

“I was asking him what was wrong, and he couldn’t answer me. He was trying to roll over and I was _stupid_ enough to help him. I asked him what was wrong again and again; he was in so much _pain_ , I don’t even know if he heard me. He was just _writhing_ on the ground and I asked him again and that’s when he said it was his back and—”

Tim stops pacing, stands there, and huffs for a few breaths. His features twist with heartbreak and wariness as he rubs his forehead. _“Oh, God!"_ He drops his hands to his side, searching the ceiling above him in disbelief. With a moan he doubles over, balling his hands into fists and presses them against his eyes.

**_"I fucking rolled him over!”_ **

Face flushed with emotion, veins in his face stand out as the young hero wails his admission. The weight of possibly ending Nightwing’s career, of clipping his brother’s wings, is too much to bare and Tim collapses into a sobbing heap on the floor.

_“... sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...,”_ he repeats, hating himself.

He feels Bruce pull him up off the floor and draw him to himself. Tim tries to push away but strong arms hold onto him. Bruce is saying something to him, trying to soothe him, but Tim shakes his head and tries again to resist the comforting voice; tries again to push away.

He’s grabbed and pulled in closer and held tighter until there is no space between him and his mentor. Bruce has his arms wrapped around him and his hold is unyielding. Tim struggles against him for a few more seconds, and then gives in. The fight drains from him and, feeling so safe and secure within the embrace, he chokes on a sob and turns into the older man’s chest.

“Shh, it’s okay, Tim. Everything’s going to be okay,” he was soothed and, against his nature, he does not pull back when the owner of that familiar voice begins to pet the side of his head.

“Wake up, Tim. You’ve gotta wake up now.”

Receiving a gentle shake, Tim’s eyes snap open and confusion instantly clogs his mind. One minute, he’s in a secure room in S.T.A.R. Labs, and the next, he’s half draped over his brother while the rest of him hangs off the side of the couch?

“You awake now, little brother?” 

Tim blinks for a moment as his mind begins to catch up with what his eyes were seeing and, looking into his brother’s concerned blues, he can’t stop himself from tearing up again. The words he's been keeping bottled up inside for weeks come spilling out. "God, Dick. I’m sorry. I am so, _so_ sorry. ”

“Aw, Timmy, No.” Dick says, and frowns.

“It’s my fault, Dick. I did this to you—”

Dick’s brow pinches together with concern as he shakes his head, “No, Tim. You didn—”

“Yes I did! I did this. I made the damage worse. It’s my fault. It’s my fault!”

Tim’s face crumbles, and Dick grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him against himself again. Tim has a death grip on his bicep as he buries his face in his shoulder and releases the guilt that had been eating him alive.

He holds the teen tightly, just as he had done while he was trying to comfort him during the nightmare. Broken sobs fight their way out from his brother’s heavy heart, and Dick holds onto him.

Dick hates to allow Tim to suffer like he is over something that wasn’t his fault, but he knew that if he had any hopes of having any type of analytical conversation with him, the only kind of conversation that would get through to his brother, they had to get this part over with first. Tim needed to purge all the crap that he had been keeping locked up inside his mind.

Earlier that evening, when Bruce had asked to meet with Dick privately, their conversation had been casual. It focused firstly on their shortcomings and then moved onto Dick’s short-term plans. However, after all of that was discussed, Bruce had stood up from his chair and without saying a word, walked over to the door of his study, and closed it quietly.

Sitting down across from him again, Dick could tell from the look on Bruce's face they were about to discuss some serious business. And, that’s when Bruce dropped the bomb and told him about what Tim had been going through every day since his injury. How his brother silently continues to carry the burden of believing that his actions upon finding Dick on the ground might have added more damage to his compromised spinal cord.

Bruce told him that he had tried to convince Tim on many occasions that what happened wasn’t his fault. That he did nothing wrong. Especially considering, he never saw how Dick was injured; Dick couldn’t tell him at the time _where_ he was injured; and confirmed that Dick was able to move his extremities before allowing him to move.

Bruce let Dick know that, so far, all of his attempts to reason with the boy had failed and told him that he suspected that Tim would need to hear it from Dick, himself, that he wasn't at fault.

Dick keeps his grip on the back of his brother's neck and wraps his other arm around him. He rests the side of his face against his brother's head and speaks into his ear. "It's not your fault, bro. Nothing that happened that night was your fault. You've gotta let it go, Tim. Okay?"

When Tim's only reply is to shake his head, Dick takes his brother's face in both his hands and raises his head.  

“Timmy. Look at me.”

Dick waits for his brother to drag his eyes up and, with his hands still holding Tim's head, looks into his brother's red-rimmed eyes. Those eyes look back at him, and in them, Dick can read sorrow, guilt and shame. More so than that, Dick can see apprehension. Apprehension over what he might say next.

Dick closes his eyes and takes in a long breath. He presses his forehead against Tim’s and then opens his eyes and looks hard into his brother’s. "Tim," he starts and then pauses, "I'm going to need a different shirt, and you really need to blow your nose."

It's about the last thing he expects Dick to say and Dick can tell that by the way a frown of confusion replaces all those other emotions. With his forehead still pressed against his brother's, Dick grins. That, and the ridiculously off-topic statement makes Tim smile back with a small breath of laughter.

The teen slides back down to the floor, blows his nose, and wipes his face on his sleeve. He looks up when Dick's hand lands on his shoulder.

“Tim, what happened; my injury, it was not your fault—”

“We don’t _know—_ ”

“You’re right. Okay? We _don’t_ know if we made things any worse when I moved—if that may have caused any more damage that wasn’t already there. We don’t. And, we're not gonna know.

“But what we do know, is me getting slammed against a steel light pole was NOT your fault. I don’t remember much after that. What I do, was the feeling that my back was on fire, and I had to roll over to snuff it out.” Dick said then pauses to brush away tears of frustration from his brother’s face.

“And, I would have rolled over on my own anyway. _You_ , little brother, were there to help me accomplish that need, but with a controlled caution I didn’t have.”

“I fucking froze out there, Dick!” Tim jumps up and walks to the window and then turns around. “You needed me to be online and to be confident and to know what to do. I _know_ what to do in those situations!” He stops and runs a hand down his face, “If Jason hadn’t shown up…”

“You would have snapped out of it and done just fine.”

Tim scoffs, “You don’t know that. Hell, I _moved_ you and you had a fucking spinal injury!”

“You couldn’t have _known_ that. You didn’t see anything that happened after Croc tossed me. The spinal shock hadn't set in yet, so I was still moving my legs, and according to your report, when you arrived on scene, I was already in the process of rolling over. Is that right?"

“Yeah, but, I should have stopped you; assessed your condition, before allowing you to move! Come on, basic Field-Medic 101, dude!”

“You did, Tim!” Dick shouts back and then scrubs his face with his hands, groaning loudly to himself in frustration. He drops his hands and looks at his brother.

“Look: Did you assess my mobility before helping me move? Was I able to move my arms and legs?”

Tim hesitates, “Well, yeah, but we both know, that alone, doesn't rule out a back injury."

"That you couldn't have known I had."

Tim explodes with frustration, "It doesn't matter!"

Dick sighs. This wasn't working. All they were doing was arguing in circles. He needs another approach.  "Alright, Timmy," Dick says, and with a wince, carefully pushes himself up and sits back against the arm of the couch. “Let’s run this from the top.

“So, I’m down, and you’re under fire to find out where I’m injured. Am I bleeding anywhere that you can see?”

"No."

"Do you ask me where I'm hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Do I answer?”

“No.”

“Okay, so now it’s clear you’ve only got seconds to figure out how to help me because, I’m not responding and, judging by my behavior, clearly it’s a critical injury. Do you assess my mobility next?”

 “Yes.”

“Good. Was I able to move both my arms and legs?”

Tim sighs, his answer is tight. “Yes.”

“Okay, so. Now, you have one of two options: spend valuable time continuing to search for clues that I might have a spinal cord injury; just in case. Or maybe, I don’t know, make sure I wasn’t rapidly bleeding out somewhere else. Which is what you did.”

“Nah,” Tim dismisses Dick’s conclusion, “I should have _known—_

“How? How in the world would you have had _any clue_ that I had an SCI*? Huh? I had no visible injury to my body, no damage to my suit to tell you where I was injured, how the hell were you supposed to know my lower back was badly injured? Huh? Tell me, how.”

Tim stands across the room and glares at him.

Dick sits patiently and waits for Tim to respond. After a minute of silence he says, “Tim. I 100% legit thought my back was on fire, but I was too out of it to communicate that, to realize that I was injured. I was going to roll over, I was moving my legs and you needed to see my front to make sure I wasn’t gushing blood from an arterial wound. Because, If I was, and you spent that time scrutinizing how well I was moving or waited until I could tell you where I was injured, I could have bled out and died.”

Dick pauses and shakes his head slightly, “Look at the facts, bro. Forget hindsight. You could not have taken that chance. You _shouldn’t_ have taken that chance. Timmy— _I_ wouldn’t have taken that chance. Neither would Bruce.

“Bro, we fight for our lives every day. Every. Damn. Day. Every time we go out there, it’s a fight to stay alive, and if it comes down to never being able to walk again or dying…?” Dick stops and points to his right, “I’ll choose that damn wheelchair every single time."

“I would much rather face the possibility of being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, than die, just because you were afraid to move me and check for a life-threatening injury.”

Dick stops and sighs with a shy smile, “Can’t really blame you if you have a hard time believing that. I know my behavior over the past few weeks would tell you otherwise,” He looks up again and shrugs, “but, it’s true.”

Tim gives him a small smile, “I believe you. Anyone would have had a hell of a time moving forward after something like that. I knew you’d find your way back.”

The smile tilts into a frown, “Man, I hear everything you’re saying and, I don’t know. Even if you’re right. Okay? Say I agree with what you’ve said… I don’t know…, but hypothetically, say I agree with you.” Tim sighs and shakes his head, “That doesn’t even hit on the point that I freaking froze up on you when you were finally able to tell me where you were injured. I failed you. You needed my help and I froze like a frickin rookie. That’s not me. I don’t do that. ”

“Tim,” Dick beckons to his brother to come back over to him.

Tim scowls at his brother’s offered hand for a few seconds before reluctantly trudging over to the couch.

Dick takes the teen by his wrist and pulls him down to sit on the edge of the couch next to him. “Tim. You’ve been in the tights for years. Throughout those years, you’ve been on the scene during plenty of injuries, with all kinds of different physiologies, and we both know that you know how to keep your cool, take charge of the situation, and make the right decisions.”

“So then what the hell _happened?”_

Dick grabs Tim’s shoulder and gives the teen a warm smile, “You let it get personal and this time you couldn’t detach yourself from the situation—I don’t know why." Dick is quick to answer the question he sees coming.

"Maybe it was because in the back of your mind you knew Jason was there and part of you wanted him to take over at being the responsible one. Maybe, you allowed yourself to be a seventeen-year-old kid, instead of a damn soldier for just once.

"You didn’t do anything wrong, Tim. We have all frozen up out there before. You’re not the first and you are _not_ at fault here. No one—not Bruce, not Alfred and certainly not I—blame you for anything.

“You have to believe that, Timmy; I _need_ you to believe that. You’ve told me for weeks now, not to worry about anything—not my job, not you and Bruce, not Gotham—and to just focus on my rehab. Well, I can’t do that if I’m worrying about you blaming— _torturing_ —yourself about what might have been.”  Dick said then grunts as he begins to move, trying to find a better position.

Tim jumps up and touches his brother’s arm, "Where are ya trying to go?"

Dick hesitates for a second and then allows himself to accept Tim’s support because it really was amazing at times, the pain that could spike through his body in the areas that were still not working yet. _(... yet) _he mentally confirms.

"I gotta lay flat." Dick answers and bites down on his lower lip as they work together to get him there.

“Do you need some pain meds?”

Taking a deep breath, Dick lets it out slowly and shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good.”

Tim might have actually believed that if the reply wasn’t so breathy and, noticing the way Dick’s forehead pinches together in discomfort, he decides to get some anyway. “You’re in pain. I’m gonna--”

“Tim.” Dick says, quickly snatching the teen by the wrist and pulls him back. “Look at me.  Do you believe me, about what I said? You’re the analyst here; look at the facts. You _know_ I’m right and you’ve gotta cut yourself a break. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

“I…,” pausing, his lips press together as he looks down at his brother, frowning as he studies his face. Dick is practically oozing worry and hope and Tim exhales with resignation. “I’ll try.”

Dick smiles. “That’s all I ask, bruh.”

Tim reciprocates with a weak smile of his own and then goes to fetch his brother a glass of water and his pills. When he returns, he doesn’t ask if Dick wants to take them. Tim knows when Dick had his last dose, and knows he was past time for another.

Dick raises an eyebrow at the way the items are thrust at him. “Alright, I’ll take it under one condition.”

Skeptical, Tim frowns, “Okay… ”

Dick nods to Tim’s nest of blankets on the floor. “Grab your stuff and go crash in my bed.”

“No way, Dick. You’ve had a really rough night and if you need—”

“Fine. That’s fine. If you want to stay out here then I’ll pass on this dose and we’ll wait until morning.”

“Dude, that’s just not cool. Not to mention complete blackmail.”

Dick simply shrugs a shoulder and grins.

Tim stands there for a moment. He knows Dick, and when his mind is made up, that was it.

After the way things had gone tonight, he doesn’t feel right about being a couple of rooms away, but he knows they both need some serious rest. Especially Dick. And, that’s not going to happen if he's hurting.

So, Tim figures if he yields to Dick’s terms, he’ll get him to take the pain meds and then he could set the alarm on his phone and get up every couple of hours to check on things. Win-win.

“Fine. You win, now take the damn pill.”

Dick does as ordered and smiles a victorious smile as Tim picks up his bedding with a huff and trudges out of the room. 

* * *

 

*SCI is a common medical abbreviation for Spinal Cord Injury


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Wejee. Thanks for holding me accountable. ;-)

Tim opens his eyes and rolls over. Sunbeams streaming in through the windows across the room blind him and he groans, clamping his eyes shut again. Grabbing the comforter, he pulls on it as he rolls over, dragging it over his body to hide beneath. Content that he has successfully blocked the offending rays, he exhales deeply and closes his eyes again. 

He sighs and feels himself beginning to be pulled under, back into a blissful sleep.  He’s teetering on the brink when realization slams into him and his eyes fly open. His brain just let him know that the sun shouldn’t be up yet.   

Tim flings the blankets back and grunts when the sun blinds him again. Squinting, he lunges for his phone. Groping among the scattered items on the nightstand, he finally grabs it and presses the front button to wake it up.  

Frowning, he rubs his bleary eyes and blinks before trying again to read the digital readout.   

 _8:12!?_  

Tim frowns, swiping his thumb across his home screens and brings up his alarm widget. Disbelief settles across his brow as he looks at the alarms he had programmed into his phone a few hours ago. 

Somehow, they were all deactivated. 

For a second, he thinks that maybe he was too out of it last night when setting the alarm.  Shaking his head, he dismisses the thought as he distinctly remembers giving into his OCD and confirming three times that they were set for the right day and time.  

Tim continues to frown at his phone for another moment, and then slowly swivels his head toward the open doorway, casting a glare through the wall and directly into the living room. 

Shucking off the covers, Tim grumbles to himself as he pushes himself to his feet. He rounds the end of the bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and then curses the persistent sun streaming through Dick’s bedroom windows while stumbling over his shoes. He pitches forward and grips onto the door frame to steady himself before making his way out into the living room.  

Scrubbing a hand through his hair as he yawns, he's confused when he hears the TV near the end of the hallway. He heads toward the couch, which still sits cockeyed in the middle of the room, and peeks over the back, hoping to find Dick asleep. Tim frowns.  

He walks around the side of the couch and finds his brother laying on the floor with his blanket and pillows, watching TV.  Tim stands in front of Dick, stares at the TV for a moment, and then takes a seat on the couch and looks at his brother. 

“Good morning! Did you sleep well?” 

Tim’s chipper greeting has Dick looking at him as if he were a mental patient off his meds. Dick raises a cautious eyebrow. “Um, not the best night I’ve had, but—“ 

“Great! Me? Oh, it’s funny you should ask, because I actually slept a lot better than I thought I would. Especially since SOMEONE turned off all of my alarms!” Tim’s happy-go-lucky demeanor slips into a vengeful glare as he shoves his cellphone in Dick’s face. “What the hell, man?” 

“Your alarms didn’t go off?” Dick asks, taking the phone and gives Tim his best innocent and bewildered look. 

“Hmm…,” says Dick as he looks at a couple of screens. “Maybe you should look into getting a new phone. This one is starting to give you problems.” he says nodding as he hands Tim the phone, and then goes back to watching TV. 

Tim rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Yeah, because that _must_ be it.” He says, tossing his phone on the coffee table and looks over at the TV.  Some guy was using use The Force on another guy and black smoke begins to billow out of the dude’s mouth. Tim brings his attention back to his brother and asks, "So, why are you on the floor?" 

“I was getting sore from laying on the couch. Needed to lay on a hard surface for a little while.” 

Tim scratches his back and asks around a yawn, “How are ya feeling now?” 

Dick twists his face a little and gives him another shrug. 

“Is it your back or are you hurting somewhere else?” 

“It’s not that bad.” 

Tim looks at him for a second, trying to get his foggy mind to properly analyze the situation, “Was it your back that woke you up? Because between last night’s muscle relaxer and a Vicodin shortly after, I’m surprised to see you coherent, let alone awake for a few hours.”  

Dick thumbs at the Coke and opened sleeve of saltines on the floor next to him. “Stomach was upset.” 

“Crap,” Tim slumps back on the couch with a groan, palming his eyes, and yawns again before dropping his hands to his lap. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t even think that you’d be taking that pill on an empty stomach.” 

Dick dismisses it with a shake of his head. “Don’t sweat it; I knew better, too. It was a crazy, fucked up night.” 

Tim blinks and raises his eyebrows, nodding in agreement. “That summed it up pretty well.” He says and then gets up and makes his way to the bathroom.  

Splashing cold water on his face, Tim catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. Red, bloodshot eyes look back at him. He throws another hand full of water on his face, groaning while he drags his hands down his cheeks.  

Standing there at the sink, he looks at himself and gives himself a little pep talk. “Not exactly the way we would have hoped last night would have gone; got thrown into the fire on the very first night." He shakes his head, "Ya got sloppy last night, Tim. Should have gotten squared away as soon as we got in. Plus, you misplaced Dick's main med pouch. Gonna have to find that this morning and if it's gone, gonna have to go get some refills."  He closes his eyes, sighing and recites: "Si vis pacem, para bellum... _If you want peace, prepare for the war_."   

Opening his eyes, he stares at his reflection and sees Robin grinning back at him. "Yeah. We got this.”  

Feeling grounded again, he turns the water off, dries his hands and face, and opens the door.  

His stomach rumbles something fierce as he walks down the hallway and he decides to swing by the kitchen to grab himself a bowl of cereal before joining Dick in the living room.  As he’s about to plop down in a recliner, Tim stops in mid chew.  

Dick looks up to see Tim studying—no, analyzing him.  

 _“..._ _W_ _hat?”_  

Tim finishes chewing while setting the bowl down on the coffee table and moves to take a seat on the corner across from his brother. “How about we start over, and this time we’ll leave the heroics out on the rooftops. 'K?” 

Dick’s eyes narrow and he pauses, “O-kay…” 

“Is it your back or are you hurting somewhere else?” Tim holds up a finger, “And, before you try to play me, I’ve got your number, bro. In the seventeen minutes I’ve been up, you haven’t moved an inch. Staying, sitting, and especially _laying_ still, is cruel and unusual punishment for you. You’re always at least fidgeting with _some_ thing. Which means you’re hurting.”  

Tim stops and glares at his brother. “Where?”  

Dick had hoped that he’d be able to convince Tim that he was fine and his brother would then go back to bed and get the rest he needed. Tim was exhausted and Dick hates to think he was the reason. He hated to be a burden. However, it was now clear that it wasn’t going to fly, so he comes clean with a sigh, “It’s my back, but nothing that some rest won’t fix. Why don’t you go back to bed for a few hours?” 

“Well, maybe. Let’s get you squared away first. You should probably take another relaxer, but first, you think you can stomach a smoothie?” 

Dick thinks about it and then agrees. “Yeah, I took a Zofran and it’s pretty much taken care of the nausea.” 

Tim nods, “That’s good—wait. Zofran? Wasn’t that in the medicine pouch I couldn’t find last night?” 

“Yup.” 

“Where the heck was it?” 

“Still in your car.” 

 _“Seriously?”_ Tim gawks. 

Dick smirks. “Yup. I looked through what was left of the contents in our bags, couldn’t find it, and the only other place it could be was in the car. Well, it _could_ have been on the side of the road; I _really_ hoped it wasn’t, though.” Dick said, smiling and Tim nodded in earnest agreement.  

“So, I went down and found it wedged between the side of the car and the back seat.” 

“Damn it. I can’t believe I didn’t put it back in your bag!” Tim stops and slaps his forehead. “I must be losing my mind. I don’t know, Dick. Maybe you’d be better off with Roy hanging out here. Apparently, I’ve checked out. I can’t BELIEVE I did that.” 

Dick laughs, “Chill, little bro. It’s not that big of a deal. Now..., you mentioned something about a smoothie?” 

Tim continues to think about what he was doing on side of the road last night and then pulls himself from his thoughts, “Huh? Oh! Yes.” He points at his brother, brimming with determination. “Yes. Give me five minutes.” 

Dick smiles to himself and unmutes the TV as Tim rushes off. A few minutes later, he’s surfing through his instant streaming menu when Tim plops down on the floor beside him, holding his breakfast.  

Dick takes in a breath and places his hands on the floor at his waist and winces, exhaling as he works to carefully push himself up. He gets just over half way when the tightness in his lower back protests too much and he has to stop. His breath is forced from his lungs with a groan and Dick lets his head fall forward with a curse. He feels Tim touch his arm and waits until the rush of pain begins to subside before he nods and, with a little help from his brother, sits all the way up and angles himself slightly to lean against the couch. 

"Man," Dick shakes his head as he takes the glass Tim's holding out to him, "That sucks every damn time."

"Yeah, but it's not as bad as it used to be."

Dick nods, and stirs the smoothie a little before taking a drink. He smiles. Of course, Tim, and his undying attention to detail, would make the perfect smoothie. He closes his eyes as the thick liquid reaches his stomach and he thinks about how long it’s been since either of them had a meal. 

Tim reaches over him to retrieve the bowl of cereal he’d abandoned earlier. “Good?” he asks as he digs into his own breakfast. 

Dick nods, looking at the half empty glass and then stirs it up again. “You know, we’re probably going to be hungry all day.” 

Tim thinks as he chews and then raises his eyebrows, nodding as he swallows. He begins to scrape the marooned bits of cereal from the sides of his bowl back into the milk. “There’s not much here. You want me to run out and grab some stuff?” 

“Nah,” Dick pops the pill that Tim had brought in with him and chases it with the last of his smoothie. “Let’s just order in in a couple hours and then maybe we can go out later. There’s a small Asian market a couple blocks away that we can grab a few things and then we’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow.” 

“That works for me.” Tim answers as Dick starts to lay back down onto the floor. “Hey, you want to go lay in bed for a while and try to actually get some rest?” 

Dick adjusts his pillows and lays back. “Believe it or not, I’m pretty comfortable right here.” He looks over at Tim, “But, why don’t you go do that. You’ve got to be tired still.” 

Tim thinks about denying that, but then is assaulted by a yawn so large, his eyes are watering by the end of it. He sighs and looks at the TV for a couple of seconds. “I don’t know,” he says and then looks around and snags a throw pillow from the couch. “Maybe I’ll just camp out here with you for a while and watch TV.” He tosses the pillow on the floor and then flops down next to his brother.  

Dick waits for him to get settled and then throws some of his comforter over his brother. Tim’s back is touching his side and Dick takes comfort from his brother’s uncharacteristic bout of snuggliness and closes his eyes, quickly drifting off.  

* * *

 “Hey, Dick…” 

“Yeah?” Dick shouts from his room as he’s cramming socks into a drawer. For the last couple of hours he and Tim had been working on unpacking, making a shopping list, an errand list and grabbing some much-needed showers.  

Now, Tim was making up the bed in the spare room, which was now his room for the time being, unpacking and setting up his computer. “When’s the food getting here, man? I’m starvin’!” 

“I don’t know. Dude said like 30 minutes.” Dick shuts the drawer, gathers the empty bags on the floor, and shoves them all into the largest bag before throwing them into his closet. “When did I order?” 

“Uh, I don’t know; look at your phone.” Tim answers around the screwdriver he has stuck between his teeth. 

Dick enters the room, “You go look at my phone if you need to know that bad.”  

Tim’s head pops up like a gopher from behind his computer, and Dick laughs as his needling pays off when brother gives him the look of death. Tim disappears back behind his computer again, muttering a few choice words, and that makes Dick laugh harder as he’s pulling out his phone to see the time.  

He doesn’t get that far, however, because a knock at the door has Tim on his feet and rounding the table before Dick can even say: _“_ There ya go.” 

“Finally!” Tim declares like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. He tosses the screwdriver to Dick. “Do me a favor and finish screwing the side back on?” 

“Yeah, alright.” Dick answers and pushes the desk chair out of the way. He gets positioned and shouts to his brother down the hall, “There’s money in the Nesquik can on the table.” 

Tim’s pulling out a couple of twenties when the delivery person knocks again. “Just a sec!” he shouts at the door, taking a few jogging steps and reaches to open it. “Hey, sorry it took me a minute, I—“ Tim looks up from straightening out the crumpled up bills and is a shocked to see Bruce standing there holding three pizza boxes. 

“Tip well, Timmy.” Dick says as he’s coming around the corner.  

Tim looks over at his brother, “I thought you ordered Chinese?” 

“I did…” Dick looks at Tim then at the door. “Oh, wow. Hey, Bruce.” 

“Order delivery for Mr. Grayson?” 

Bruce turns to the side and looks down at the petite deliveryman standing behind him holding onto a couple of bulging sacks.  

“Well, this is awkward.” Tim says. 

Bruce sighs, hands the pizzas to Dick then takes the bags of Chinese from the deliveryman and hands them to Tim. He pulls out his wallet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and when Dick begins to protest, Bruce silences him with a hand.  

With the deliveryman tipped _very_ well, Bruce closes the door and ushers his boys into the living room. He helps Tim make room on the coffee table for the food and then takes a seat as the boys dig in. 

“Stuffed crust! Thanks, Bruce!” 

Dick slowly looks over at Tim while sucking in the last part of his Lo Mein noodle. “You’re kidding, right?” 

“What?” 

Dick watches Tim cram half a slice of pizza into his mouth and immediately thinks of five Alfred-comments right off the bat. He hands Tim a napkin. “I tried to talk you into pizza for ten minutes, but you were _dying_ for Chinese.” 

Tim shrugs, “Yeah, but now that it’s here, it looks good.” 

Tim takes another huge bite and Dick shakes his head, “ _Un_ -believable.” He looks over to Bruce who was helping himself to some of the Mongolian beef. “Are you seeing this?” 

Bruce pauses as he’s reaching for an egg roll and looks at Dick, who then points across the coffee table to his brother. Bruce turns and looks at his youngest who was struggling to chew with his mouth closed. He places the egg roll on his plate, grabs a napkin, and sits back in the recliner. “Looks like he needs another slice.”   

Bruce takes a bite from his egg roll and Dick just watches him chew for a couple of seconds before shaking his head with a wide grin. He looks at the food on his plate and then moves in to grab some of the pizza. He takes a bite and gives Tim a nod, “I should record you and post it to Alfred’s Facebook page.”  

Bruce chokes, looks over at Dick, and actually talks with his mouth full. “Alfred has a Facebook page?” 

Dick nods as he drags his crust through the sauce from his Sesame Chicken. 

Bruce tilts his head, looks at Tim and then back at Dick, “When did that happen?” 

Dick shrugs, “I don’t know; few months back?” He says and looks over to Tim for conformation. Tim nods as he’s checking out the pizzas in the other boxes. “Couple months ago.” Dick confirms. 

Bruce stops eating and just sits there for a moment. 

“It was right after he came back from his last trip to England. Remember that reunion he had with a bunch of his old actor buddies?” 

Bruce nods. 

“Well,” Dick takes a drink and continues, “Apparently, they’d been all keeping up with each other for a while by using Facebook and Alfred had asked Tim and I to help him get set up so he could keep in touch with everyone.”  

Dick watches as Bruce digests the thought of Alfred on Facebook. He’s quiet for a moment and then adds, “He really likes memes and has joined a few culinary groups.” 

Bruce raises his eyebrows. “Huh…”  

Dick turns a mischievous grin on his brother, “And that, Timmy, is where a video of Alfred’s accomplishments at instilling proper educate in one of his charges should be displayed.” 

Dick gestures with his hands to suggest breaking news headlines in the air to his right and speaks like a stodgy news anchorman: “Alfred’s Proud Grandson: When British Manners Go Bad.” 

Tim stops and looks at Dick, studies him, and tries to gauge how serious he is. He swallows, “Dude. That’s not even funny.” 

Dick grins, “Oh, it’d be funny.” 

“So, Alfred mentioned that you called last night.” 

Bruce’s casual statement has Tim and Dick sharing a slightly uneasy glance at each other. They chew silently for a second. Dick recovers first. “Really? He mentioned that?” Dick asks, and can’t help but to feel just a tiny bit of betrayal. 

“Well,” Bruce casually shrugs a shoulder while he twirls Lo Mein noodles on his fork, “It came up more than he mentioned it. Everything going alright so far?” he asks, keeping eye contact with Dick as he put the fork in his mouth. 

“It came up?” Dick scratches the side of his head, “How did it come up? And…,” Dick looks at the time on his phone. “Not to sound ungrateful, or anything, but it’s a little odd for you to leave the office before seven. Very odd for you to leave before six.” He looks at Bruce. “What’s going on?” 

Bruce takes a breath, “It came up because I was trying to reach Alfred on comms last night, but he ignored me for a good ten minutes; only communicating intermittently via text. The only time he does that if something or some _one_  requires immediate assistance that trumps even The Batman. The only other thing I could think of,” Bruce pauses and looks between his boys, “was you two.

“And, to answer your other question, I had a light day.” 

Dick nods and tells himself to play it cool. Just because Bruce randomly shows up, unexpectedly with food, doesn’t necessarily mean he’s there under false pretenses. And, even if he was, Bruce was at least putting forth an effort to keep things casual and civil. He’s a dad checking on his kids, Dick tells himself, and looks back at Bruce and nods, "Oh."

Dick gives Bruce what he hopes is a confident, easy-going smile, shrugs and takes a bite of pizza. “Well,” he says around a mouth full, “everything’s fine.” 

Bruce nods back and looks over at Tim, who had already carried on with his meal and was reaching for a third slice.  

Dick guesses that must be enough to satisfy Bruce’s curiosity because he nods again and says, “Good.” And then reaches for a slice from the box on the bottom.  

Surprised to see Bruce indulge in junk food, Dick looks at his father wide-eyed, “Better go easy there, big guy.” And then gives him a knowing smile, “If you show up for supper without an appetite, Alfred will have your head.” 

Bruce wipes pizza grease from his mouth and shakes his head. “Oh, no. I have much too much work to do tonight to even _consider_ having supper. I already let him know that a couple of hours ago.” 

Tim snorts and drains the last of his soda from the can. “Like that matters. You know Alfred’s not fooled by that.” 

Bruce shrugs. “I know. But, we have a system.” 

 

  

 

  


	7. Author's Note

Author's Note:

Hello, my beautiful story followers. I wanted to drop in and give you a quick info dump on what's going on with the updates to This Too Shall Pass.

It seems that some unforeseen, and unavoidable, circumstances have plopped down in my life recently and for the next few months, updates are going to be slow. I have had the majority of chapter seven written for a month, but have not had an opportunity to sit down and finish the dang thing. It's quite frustrating, and ALWAYS in the forefront of my mind. 

Quite a few of the next chapters to come are either mostly written or outlined. Harbor no thoughts of abandonment on this fic. It will be finished; just for the next few months, probably a lot slower than either of us would prefer. 

Real Life. What're ya gonna do about it. Right?

So, anyhoo... I just wanted to pop in and give you a heads up on what's going on, on this side of the story. I thank you for your patience and understanding. You guys are amazing! 

All my best,

Itzagoodthing


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait for this chapter. To make up for it, this chapter is twice as long as my usual chapters. I don't anticipate the next chapter taking as long to update, but I can't make any promises. Thanks for hanging in there. I hope you enjoy, and as always, I apologize for any errors.

* * *

 

Dick turns and looks around at his apartment. For the past fifteen minutes, he's been moving between the dining room and living room with nervous energy. On the move again, he enters his living room and comes to a stop in front of his floor-to-ceiling windows. Watching the street below, he fidgets with the Nightwing mask in his lap. 

In ten minutes, Nightwing has an appointment at S.T.A.R. Labs in Palo Alto and currently, he’s only waiting on one thing. 

Dick looks at his mask and takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly to release the tightness in his chest and tells himself to relax. This appointment could mean big things for him. But, only if everything goes just right. It's the "what ifs" that have his nerves all balled up and, taking another deep breath, he tells himself to quit stressing about it. That works for a good ninety seconds.

He looks at his phone: six minutes.

Giving in to his impatience, Dick activates his comm.

After a moment, he gets a response. “Receiving.”

“Where _are_ you?”

“Just about to come in now. Are you prepared to receive?”

Dick presses a tiny button on his mask and all of his windows shift to an opaque screen. “Affirmative.”

“Stand by.”

Dick watches as the empty space behind his couch is displaced, creating a ripple effect so subtle that, unless you knew what to look for, you’d never detect it. A second later, Batman was standing in his living room, sans the cowl.

“What was taking you so long?” Dick asks as he pushes himself over to where Batman appeared. He stops beside him and looks down at his phone. “We have to be there in five minutes!”

“Calm down. We’ve got plenty of time,” Bruce says, adjusting his gauntlets, "when does Tim get back from school?"

"Around four."

Batman nods, "You should leave him a note to keep the filters on the windows. We should get back shortly after he arrives."

"Already stuck one to his computer monitor," Dick grins. They both know booting up his computer is the first thing the teen will do after walking through the door.

Batman nods in agreement and reaches back for his cowl. He pauses, casting a glance to the item Dick’s holding. “Are you going to put that on?”

Dick looks down at the mask that is twisted in his hands and smirks, “Feels a little funny going out as Nightwing while wearing track pants and sneakers.”

Bruce grunts and pulls his cowl down, “It’s not the first time.”

“No, but…,” Dick hesitates and looks down at his mask, “I can’t shake the feeling of how _wrong_ it feels.  This time it feels… like a lie.”

Batman looks down at his son, “When a Marine is wounded in battle, is he still a Marine?”

Dick frowns and looks up, “Of course, but this is nothing—”

"It's exactly like that. You haven't relinquished the mantel of Nightwing. Moreover, even after the day comes when you pass it on to someone else, in your heart, you'll still be Nightwing. You'll _always_  be Nightwing. Just like that Marine will always be a Marine."

Dick looks his mask and with a short exhale of determination, he flattens it back out, fixes the spirit gum he’d applied earlier and brings it up to his face. He presses on it, making sure it’s secure.

 Nightwing looks up at Batman with a crooked grin, “Beam me up, Scotty.”

Batman nods with a grunt of approval and touches his comm, “Ready.”

Dick unconsciously holds his breath as his stomach twitches with the familiar tingling that happens with every teleport. A second later, he and Batman are in the teleport bay of S.T.A.R. Labs. They are received by one of the facility's nurses. 

“Batman; Nightwing,” She smiles at Dick warmly, “Right this way, please.” Turning, she leads them down a short corridor before entering a room that has a radiation placard on the door.

Inside is a petite woman that Dick recognizes as the neuroscientist, and talking with her is the orthopedic surgeon that has been overseeing the recovery of his spine for the last eight weeks.  He’s a tall, broad man in his fifties. His grey hair is short and spiky and when he shakes Dick’s hand, he uses a firm grip.

Giving the handshake a few good, hearty pumps, the doctor smiles kindly, “Nightwing, nice to see you again. Batman..." The doctor greets the Dark Knight and then directs his attention back to his patient, "Everything been going well?”

Dick grins, “Better, Dr. Goodwin. Thanks.”

“Good, good,” Goodwin releases the handshake and squats down so he’s on Dick’s level, “Well, son, what we’re going to do today is, we’re going to take some pictures of your spine and then I’ll give them a real good look. If you’re still healing as well as you have been, then I’m going to get you out of that brace and into a different one that has a much lower profile and is flexible. How’s that sound?”

Dick smiles, “That would be fantastic.”

Goodwin nods in agreement, “Also, if that’s the case, then I’ll turn you over to Dr. Bowman and she’ll take over in regards to your recovery. At that time, she'll explain everything that her and her team will be doing. Okay?”

Dick nods.

Goodwin leans in, “It’s pretty amazing stuff. You’re going to love the outcome. I promise." Goodwin stands up and gives Dick’s bicep a couple pats. "All righty then, let’s get this show on the road, eh?”  

“Batman, if you’ll follow me," Dr. Goodwin extends his arm toward a door, "we’ll look at the results as they come in from the control room.”

Ten minutes later, Dr. Goodwin is showing Dick the new brace. “Had no doubts, my boy. Now, scoot up on your seat a little for me."

Dick applies the wheel locks to his chair and lifts himself off the seat, pushing himself forward a few inches. He watches as the doctor takes a black brace out of its packaging. He lifts his arms out of the way as Dr. Goodwin reaches around his sides and centers the brace on his lower back. The doctor brings one of the ends forward, folds it across Dick's stomach, and then brings the other end to the front. That end has a wide Velcro strap attached to three cords that adjust the pressure on his back.

"Your vertebrae are 96% mended and it’s my professional opinion that you’ll reach the textbook standards of "healed" by the end of next week. However, over the next month your bones will continue atomic repairs and will continue to strengthen,” He says as he’s tugging on the adjuster, cinching the ties on the back of the brace. He fastens it and then slips a couple of fingers between Dick's side and the brace, giving a couple of gentle tugs.  He stands back and studies Dick’s posture, “Looks good, how’s it feel; not squishing your insides too much?”

Dick shakes his head while looking the brace over and experiments with the end that fastens. He loves the fact that it only covers from his stomach to his hips. It's flexible, yet he can definitely feel the support it gives. Carefully, he twists from side to side, testing out his range of motion. He pushes it just a little too far while twisting to the left and stops with a hiss.

“Yeah,” Dr.  Goodwin says with a sympathetic nod, “unfortunately those torn ligaments and tendons will be giving you issues for a while still. Would be nice if they healed as quickly as bones do,” he looks at Batman, “but, I’m sure you guys already know, that’s just not the case.”

Standing next to Nightwing with his arms folded across his chest, Batman nods silently. He brings a hand up and rests his chin on his fist, assessing Dick’s new brace, “How often should he be wearing this new one?”

“Oh—” Goodwin exhales and twists his mouth as he thinks, “—couple hours here and there throughout the day. I'd say, aim for six hours a day until the end of next week, when his bones should be mended, and then gradually less and less over time.”

The doctor looks at Nightwing, “Your vertebrae still need the support for now, and if you're in pain, because unfortunately, you'll still be pretty sore at times, wear it. However, after next week, really pay attention to how much you're wearing it and if you really _need_ to be wearing it. Because, if you use it too much, you might get dependent on it. And, then that means that your bones, muscles, tendons, ligaments," Goodwin counts off on his fingers, "instead of becoming stronger, they'll remain weak."

Dick nods, “Got it.”

"Good!" Goodwin smiles and claps his hands, “OK, Nightwing.  Come back in about two weeks and we'll do a final MRI to make sure you've completely healed. That'll probably be our last appointment—which, I’m certain you won’t feel overly sentimental about—”

Dick laughs.

"And, that’s OK, because on that day I’ll tell you I hope to never see you again.” Goodwin opened the door to his office and popped his head out into the hall, “Angie, would you come here, please?”

Standing in the open doorway, Goodwin looks back at Dick, “Well, that’s not entirely true.  I’ll see you again when you come and visit me; walking in here on your own two feet. Sound good?”

Dick smiles and nods, taking Goodwin’s offered hand.

“Yeah? It's a deal?” Goodwin shakes his hand eagerly.

Dick grins, “Yeah.”

“Good, good,” Goodwin pats Dick’s shoulder and then turns to the woman standing beside him.

“This here,” the doctor gestures to the woman standing in the open doorway, “this is the fabulous nurse Angie. My door might have M.D. on it, but she’s the one that runs this show. She hops around from department to department, making sure everything is ship shape and, most importantly, she keeps me in line. Don’t you, nurse Angie?”

"Oh, I try."

Goodwin winks at the nurse and then looks back at Dick, "She’s going to show you to where Dr. Bowman and her team are waiting.”

“Great; thanks,” Dick says with a small wave and follows the nurse out of the room.

Batman turns to the doctor and offers a gloved hand, “Thank you, doctor.”

If Dr. Goodwin felt any awe about the fact that Batman was standing there, in his office, offering his hand in thanks, he never shows it. Instead, he takes off his glasses and grasps the gloved hand, giving it his trademark, hearty handshake, "If you need anything or have any questions at all, never hesitate to contact me. If anything comes up months down the line, even. Give me a call."

* * *

Nightwing and Batman follow behind Nurse Angie as she leads them three floors down, about thirty yards down a long hallway, and into a spacious, open room. It’s approximately the side of a four-car garage. Dick’s eyes dart around the room, and upon an initial calculation, he estimates the space to be a good 40' x 25’.

He looks up. _With what has to be at last at least a twenty-foot-high ceiling_.

The next thing that demands Dick’s attention is the giant cylindrical water tank in the center of the room. Dick eyes it up and down as he moves past and he can’t help but feel a slight sensation of trepidation at what that tank could possibly have to do with him.

Except for the black metal footer, the entire tank consists of a clear, glass-like material. The clarity through the glass is too perfect to be Plexiglas, which would have been Dick’s first guess from afar. However, knowing the types of Metas and otherworldly beings that S.T.A.R. Labs works with, Dick’s sure it’s some sort of crazy, unbreakable hybrid glass. 

Filled three quarters of the way with what he hopes is water, Dick looks up at the top and sees the same black metal enclosure as the bottom, but notices a hinged lid. Three LED tube lights attach to the underside of the lid and illuminate the tank, giving the water a soft blue glow.

Dick glances over at Batman and sees him taking in a quick assessment of the impressive equipment surrounding them.  His mouth is pulled downward and Dick knows, under the cowl, the man's forehead is creased from the frown. Dick can tell just from his posture that Bruce is already forming a negative opinion of this procedure. He's sure Batman already hacked into their systems and found out everything he needed to know about what they planned to do.

Looking at his mentor again, and judging from his uncertainty, Dick thinks it's possible that either Batman was unsuccessful in his attempt, or was fed a dummy file. After all, this is S.T.A.R. Labs and it's highly probable that they have the resources and know-how to guard against such intrusions to protect their research. Even from the Batman.

With a smile, Nurse Angie looks over her shoulder, “Come this way, please.” Thick cords and wires of almost any color you could think of extend from the bottom of the tank and run along the floor. Batman and Nightwing are lead alongside them to a control terminal. And, that’s where they find Dr. Bowman.

Seated in front of one of four monitors, using her mouse to click through different fields within the program she’s running, is the neurosurgeon. Every couple of fields, she pauses and types rapidly on the keyboard. Her keystroke is like her touch; feather-light, yet has the precision and accuracy you’d expect to see in one of the top neurosurgeon/scientists in the world.

Nurse Angie stands to the side of Dr. Bowman, and hugs the files she’s carrying to her chest, “Dr. Bowman?”

“Just one more field…,” the doctor replies as she looks at a binder to her left. With her finger, she scrolls down the page and then follows the line to the right. She enters a numeric value into the last field and then looks up at Nurse Angie, and then to the two heroes that stand behind her.

With a smile, she stands and walks around the terminal.  Giving her lab coat a stiff tug to straighten it out, she tucks a strand of strand of hair behind her right ear. Her long brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail and, as she moves toward them, the ends of her hair brush against the tops of her shoulders.  

Nurse Angie hands the doctor Dick’s file, “Dr. Goodwin has looked over Nightwing’s x-rays and has cleared him for the next phase in his treatment."

Bowman nods as she flips through the chart while taking a couple steps to stand before Nightwing. Unlike everyone else at the facility, when they have a conversation, she does not crouch down to be at his level. It has nothing to do with being unsympathetic to his temporary height, and she really does understand how much more comfortable it is for him to carry on a conversation with someone without having to look up the entire time. It’s simply because she stands at just over 4’ 2” and there really is no need to make a reduction in her already, amazingly petite stature.

She closes the file with a smile, “Dr. Goodwin and I had a very good feeling about today being the day that you could move into this next phase.”

Dick nods and looks around a little, “I’m looking forward to it too, but, I’ve gotta tell ya…, I’m pretty curious to see what exactly you’re going to do with me.”

Bowman nods, looking around at all of the equipment, “It’s intimidating, I know. But, I assure you, you’ll do just fine.”

Dick turns his chair around as she walks over to the water tank. She stands before it and then turns to face them again.

“Nightwing, do you remember how we talked about what the standard procedure would have been if you had been transported to even the top civilian facility in the world?”

Dick nods, “Yeah, they would have had to fuse a few of my vertebrae together for stability and that would have majorly cut into my range of motion.”

“Exactly. What we were able to do here instead, was use a form of alien tech that we’ve researched and learned from for close to a decade, to support your vertebrae while they healed to avoid having to fuse them. However, that’s not the only thing this tech does. It also, when engaged,” Bowman turns and places a hand on the wall of the water tank, “stimulates your nervous system below your site of injury and temporarily allows you to move almost as naturally as you might be able to, had you not been injured.

“Now—“ Bowman stops and puts up a hand, smiling when Dick’s eyes go wide and a large grin begins to spread across his face, “Hear me out… don’t get too excited just yet. You’ll regain feeling in your legs today and you _will_ be able to move. However. You won’t be nearly as strong as you think you might be. Even though you’ve been doing your PT, the fact is you really haven’t used your legs for eight weeks and you’re going to see what I’m talking about very quickly."

Dick’s smile fades just the slightest bit, but he nods with understanding.

“It’s going to take time,” the doctor says, taking a step forward, she places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, “but with this kind of therapy, it’s going to make a _huge_ difference in your rehab time; cutting it nearly in half.”

Raising his eyebrows, Dick takes a breath in and nods again, “I’ll take whatever I can get in that department.”

Bowman returns his smile, “Take my word, Nightwing. We’re all going to do our best to get you out of the wheelchair and back out into the field, in as little time as possible.”

Batman walks next to the tank and briefly looks it over, “And, how exactly will you stimulate the tech in Nightwing’s back?”

Dr. Bowman nods, “Yes. Well, what we have here is six hundred gallons of salt water. We’ve altered water’s natural elements, allowing for an additional element, called chorans, to bind with the water’s electrons. When the chorans are stimulated, they will create a pathway to the alien tech—” Bowman purses her lips while looking out into space for a moment, thinking of the best way to explain, "—not unlike how a remote control connects with a television."

Batman looks down at the doctor, “A transmitter.”

Bowman looks between the two heroes and nods, “Yes,” and then smiles, “only, not exactly. Nevertheless, yes, that’s the general idea. Through the chorans, the tech will wake up and we will be able to feed it information, telling it what we need it to do and for a short while afterward, Nightwing will regain sensation below his site of injury and we’ll take advantage of that time to get in some hard core PT.”

Dick nods, looking from the tank to the doctor, “And…, you stimulate the tech, how?”

“Well,” The doctor takes a deep breath, “What we’re going to do is, using that contraption over there that looks like a playground swing, we’ll lower you into the tank. The water is heated to a very comfortable eighty-one degrees, and you’ll be wearing what, for the most part, is a clear, full-face scuba mask. Except this mask, along with supplying you with oxygen will also be sending me readings on your vitals.”

Something in Dick’s gut twists when the doctor pauses, her expression becomes serious, as she looks directly into Dick’s eyes. “Then, we have to send a series of short jolts of electricity through the water in order to communicate with the tech.”

“You want to electrocute Nightwing.” Batman’s comment is not posed as a question.

“Um,” the doctor scratches the crown of her head, breathing out a huff of laughter, “Not exactly.”

Dick rolls his eyes at the way Batman’s towering over the doctor, scowling down at her. Her hand has the slightest tremble to it as she brings it down the side of her face.

He leans forward and touches her arm. “Hey. Don’t worry about big, tall and scary over there.” Smirking, Nightwing tilts his head in Batman’s direction. “He’s so used to doing that “looming” thing, sometimes he forgets to turn it off.”

Dick looks over at Batman, “Quit scaring the nice doctor.”

Batman takes a step back and sighs. “Please elaborate.”

“Of course,” she says with a polite smile, “Yes. We will be passing current through the tank, and yes, that current will be uncomfortable, but it will not be strong enough or long enough to pose a danger to Nightwing’s heart rhythm.

“Two-second pulses that will begin at about one milliamp.  Over the span of a couple of minutes, we’ll increase the amperes a quarter of a milliamp with each pulse until we have confirmation that the tech is active, not to exceed 4.73 milliamps.”

Batman raises his palm. “Any electrical current that passes through the heart can put even the healthiest heart into arrhythmia. You can accomplish this to some with a simple 9volt battery.”

“That’s true; however Nightwing’s heart is not weak nor does he have a pacemaker, so I’m confident to say that, while it’s highly unadvisable, he’d survive the current from a 9volt battery. Now, if I may, I’ll explain what roll the chorans have in all this.”

Dick smirks at how the doctor’s chin juts out as she waits for Batman’s response. Grinning, he sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. He looks at the doctor, and then looks expectantly over to his mentor.

Batman grunts, and Nightwing looks back over at Bowman, “That’s Bat talk for: please do.”

“The chorans,” Bowman continues, “act as specific resistance for the heart. As you know, our body has a natural resistance to electricity. The chorans, will not only create a pathway to the tech, they will also redirect the current from reaching Nightwing’s heart and focus that current mainly on the tech within his back.

“Will _all_ of the current, or amperes, be directed entirely to the tech? No. A minimal amount will pass through the heart. However, it will be such a low amount that even someone with a pacemaker would not be affected.”

Dr. Bowman waits to make sure Batman doesn’t have any other questions, and when he seemed satisfied to chew on the information and process, she turns to Nightwing. “I want you to be very aware that while it is not a life-threatening procedure, it can be a very _uncomfortable_ procedure. Toward the end, it may feel like we are, indeed, electrocuting you.

“And, it will hurt.

“Some have even passed out from it, but none has ever had any lasting, negative effects from this treatment. We’ve witnessed some very amazing results over the years.”

Bowman pauses and places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, “However, I want you to be absolutely certain that you want to go through with this. We don’t have to do this today. If you want to think it over, that's perfectly fine.”

“Oh, no.” Nightwing grins, “It’s a no-brainer for me. I’m ready; let’s do this.”

Holding Nightwing’s attention for a second, Bowman searches his expression and then begins to nod her head. She looks over to Batman and he looks at Nightwing for a moment before scowling and gives the doctor a nod of approval.

“Alright.” She turns on her heel and walks over toward where the swing is, “Did you come prepared for water therapy?”

“Yup.” Dick answers and unsnaps the sides of his track pants. Underneath he’s wearing black spandex cycling shorts. He looks up at Batman, “Little help?” and raises himself off his seat long enough for Batman to grab the fabric and pull his track pants out from underneath.

One of the lab techs comes over with a large plastic bag, “You can put your belongings in here. No jewelry or watches, even if they are waterproof.”

Dick takes the bag, then his pants from Batman and shoves them into the bag. He follows suit with his shirt and then begins to work on his shoes and socks.

One of the assistants leads him over to where the transfer swing is and, with a little assistance from a different lab tech, gets situated on it. With one hand, he holds onto a black nylon rope as he’s raised up and over the open water tank and then is slowly lowered into it until the water comes up to his knees.

There is an assistant waiting for him on a platform at the top of the tank and he hands Dick the oxygen mask. Dick puts it on and the assistant checks the straps to make sure it’s comfortable, yet snug enough to keep water from passing under the seal.

“How’s that feel; too tight?”

Dick shakes his head and gives the guy a thumbs-up.

“Oxygen flowing good?”

“Yup.”

“Good. Okay, so, we’re going to be keeping track of just about any vital you can think of; even down to your sodium levels. But, if for any reason, you need us to stop, just give the sign,” the assistant says and demonstrates this by using his hand to make a slashing gesture across his throat.

“Got it.”

“All right,” The assistant hands Dick a weighted strap, “Put this around your waist; it’ll keep you from bobbing to the top. I’ll fish you out in a couple of minutes. Good luck, man.”

“Sounds good.” Dick says and fastens the strap. He waits until he is lowered further into the tank before slipping off the swing. The strap around his waist has just enough weight on it to keep him positioned at right about the center of the tank.

He’s not sure how they’re doing it, but somehow he’s able to hear the doctor talking to him from within the tank. She’s coming through clear as a bell. “Ready, Nightwing? We’ll start nice and easy. Okay?”

“I’m ready.” He answers and watches as the doctor gives her tech an order and then looks over to Batman.

Other than turning to watch the tank, Dick doesn’t think the man has moved the entire twenty minutes that they’ve been down here in the lab. Dick can tell by the way he's hunching his shoulders, that he’s uneasy about all of this; he gives him a little wave. His mentor responds with an encouraging nod.

The light in the tank flickers and Dick can feel a short buzzing sensation before it stops. A couple of seconds later he feels it again, this time more intense. The third jolt borders on uncomfortable and the fifth makes him wince. After that, he’s cringing with a grunt on each one, but it all pays off when he tries to curl into himself and actually brings a knee up.

Surprised, Dick’s wide-eyed as he whips his head around and double points to Batman and then to his knee. Batman nods and Dick gives him a toothy grin with a double thumbs-up. He looks down at his feet and can't stop smiling as he wiggles his toes.

"Get ready, Nightwing." Dr. Bowman's voice comes through in the tank, “It’s about to get a bit bumpy from here."

Dick takes a breath and tries to prepare himself, "Ready."

"Okay, here we go; you'll do fine. Just hang on."

Dick looks at Bowman as she's talking to him and then he's jolted, and again, curls into himself. Both knees come up this time. But, taking a step toward the tank, Batman is paying more attention to the bubbles that are forced past the mask from Dick's yelp. 

When it passes, Dick looks over at Batman again and barely has time to smile before he is blasted again. The current sizzles through his lower back and has him lurching back with a deep groan.  When it ends, he’s breathing heavily in small grunts. He’s hit again and his face twists as he throws his head back. His palm slams against the glass and he cries out.

Frowning, Batman turns toward the doctor. She reads his skepticism and answers, “Perfectly normal. You can come watch his vitals if you’d like.” For a second, she thinks he’ll take her up on the offer, but then she recognizes the look in his eyes and knows he won’t leave Nightwing’s side.

Batman turns back around as Dick’s jolted again. He sees Dick has his arms extended to either side of himself, pressing against the sides of the tank. He watches Dick’s chest, timing his respirations and asks, “Can he hear me?”

“Unfortunately, no. Only by headset. However, we’re almost finished. He’s doing just fine. Incredible in fact.”

Dick looks over at him before he’s jolted, and then throws his head back again. He releases a low, desperate groan for as long as the current passes through him. Batman steps forward, places a gloved hand over Dick's, and presses it against the glass. As hard as it was to watch his son endure this, Bruce can't deny the spark of joy he feels at the sight of Dick moving his legs again. 

The next jolt hits Dick and Bruce doesn’t like the way Dick barely reacts to it as his hands begin to slip away from the glass. The next charge doesn't get a reaction at all. Dick's head falls forward and his body goes limp; a small cloud of red escapes from his nostril.

Batman turns and approaches the doctor. “Shut it down. Now.”

Dr. Bowman gives the tech the okay to cease the treatment and Batman has to resist the urge to rush up the steps to the top of the tank and pull his son out. Willpower alone keeps himself planted where he stands and he watches as one of the techs jump into the water, releases the weighted strap from around Dick’s waist, and wraps an arm around his son's chest. The swing is lowered into the water and the tech holds onto him as he rides the swing to the top.

They break the surface and the other assistant gently removes the oxygen mask from Dick's face and then helps to lift him from the tank. There is the sound of an alarm in the room and the platform at the top begins to move away from the tank while the techs are busy wrapping Dick in towels.

Down on the floor, there is a flurry of activity as a gurney appears and the doctor calls for heated blankets. By time the platform reaches the floor, a tech is running up with the blankets and spreads a couple on the gurney just before they carefully lay Dick down.

An assistant wraps Dick from head to toe in the warm blankets and Batman pushes his way to the head of the gurney. He looks up as another young woman is reaching into the cocoon of cotton and dries Dick's skin before attaching electrodes to specific areas of his chest, torso, arms and legs. When she's finished, she wraps him back up, making the blankets snug, and then rounds the gurney. Flipping a switch on a monitor, she studies his vitals, making notes in a binder.

Batman grabs Dick’s shoulder and feels his trembling frame through all of towels and blankets. He gives it a squeeze. “Nightwing.”

Dick cracks his lids and smiles. “Did... did you see?”

His son’s endless smile has a calming effect and he nods, asking, “Are you okay?”

“Better than okay, B. Look.”

Batman looks down and sees movement from under the blankets as Dick move his legs a little.

“There will be some lasting sensation,” Bowman explains and walks around to the other side of the gurney, “This time the sensation will fade quickly, but each treatment will yield better, longer-lasting results.” She pauses to listen to Dick’s heart and then moves on to his lungs, “Maybe next time we’ll be able to take advantage of the residual sensation and get in some intense therapy.”

“Let’s do it now.”

Dr. Bowman stops and looks Dick in the eyes. “No. Not after the first session. It’s too much of a toll on the system.”

Nightwing shakes his head, insisting that he can handle it and sits up. With a gush, he exhales like the wind were knocked out of him, and he leans forward, grabbing his head.

Batman takes him by the shoulders as the doctor curses. She presses her hands to the front and back of his head saying, “It’s okay, Nightwing. Lie back… lie back and it will ease.” She soothes as they lay him back down, “You’re okay; just lie back.” She motions over her shoulder to a tech.  “Nerve block. Now.”

Nightwing is still clutching his head as he rolls onto his side. The pounding in his head gets worse with each heartbeat and even though he knows better, he starting to question if his skull could actually crack open from a migraine.

He’s trying to curl into a ball, but already he's losing the sensation in his legs. With a frustrated moan, he gives up, but then cracks a lid open when Bruce takes him behind the knees and brings his legs up to his chest.

Batman takes a knee in front of him and begins speaking a familiar mantra. Dick focuses on it and his hand slips from his head and finds the cape at Batman’s shoulder. Gripping it, he closes his eyes and begins to recite it with his mentor as the doctor injects the nerve block at the back of his head.

"Give this a few seconds to work and you'll be much better." Bowman says as she's pressing the plunger on the syringe. With the entire drug delivered, she places the used syringe on a tray her assistant holds out and then walks around to the other side of the gurney.

She doesn't ask him to move, but gets into Batman's personal space while leaning in close to Dick's face. "Nightwing. Open your eyes for me."

Dick obeys. His vision swims for just a moment before settling. Blinking a few times, he realizes the crushing pain is fading and he no longer feels like he could vomit up Alfred’s cordon bleu from last Friday.

Dr. Bowman places a hand to his forehead and leans in, speaking softly, "Nightwing? How you doing, hon? Any better?"

Dick closes his eyes and tries to swallow. His face crinkles with discomfort.

"Here," Bowman produces a Styrofoam cup with a straw, "take a drink."

Dick cracks his eyes open and sips from the straw. After a couple of swallows he lays back and clears his throat, "It's getting better."

"Good. You'll be doing much better in just a couple of minutes."

Batman stands and looks at the doctor, "What happened?"

Bowman inhales deeply and tucks her hair behind her ear, "Well, his system is a little freaked out at the moment. The tech is communicating with his nervous system and his lymphatic system is trying to figure out the tech. Right now, it sees it as a foreign body, which it is, so it's going to do what it's supposed to do when the immune system detects a new element, compound, virus or substance. It's trying to fight it off.

"Nine out of ten patients run a moderate fever for the first twelve to eighteen hours. Nothing concerning and easily managed with ibuprofen. If his temperature stays above 102 while on the medicine, come back.

"But, for the most part, he'll just sleep it off for the rest of the afternoon and night. Come tomorrow, he won't even be able to tell that anything is different," Bowman finishes, nodding toward her patient with a grin.

Batman looks down and sees his partner is fast asleep, "How long before I can take him home?"

The scientist looks over Nightwing's vitals and nods, "He's doing really well, just as expected. Let us monitor him for the next hour. As long as there aren't any fluctuations, you'll be good to go."

Bowman looks at one of her techs, "Kevin, why don't we get Nightwing moved into one of the recovery bays." She looks over at Batman, "You'll be more comfortable over there and have a bit of privacy. We'll be nearby, keeping an eye on things."

* * *

Tim is sitting in front of his computer, munching on some Pop Tarts, when his phone receives a text message. Sticking the remainder of the pastry into his mouth, he picks up his phone and looks at the message. It's from and unknown sender and the message is comprised of only one word: Incoming.

Tim smiles. He jumps up from his chair and trots into the living room.  There is a slight shift in the atmosphere in the room and then Batman appears, cradling Dick in his arms. Tim looks from his mentor to the empty wheelchair that appears beside Batman, to his brother. Dick is cocooned in a blanket and Tim can see his brother trembling from where he stands at the other side of the room.

His jaw drops and he advances toward the two, "God! What did they do to him?"

Batman ignores the teen for the moment and looks down at his cargo, "Bed or couch?"

Tim comes to a stop beside them and is quick to notice his brother's dry, rosy cheeks. His eyes dart to his mentor, "Does he have a fever?"

Batman sighs, "In a minute." Then looks at his eldest, "Dick?"

Dick doesn't open his eyes, answering in a voice just above a whisper, "Bed, I guess."

Batman looks at Tim as he starts to walk past, "Go fetch the thermometer and a glass of water."

Tim does as he's told and by time he makes it to Dick's room, Bruce has gotten Dick situated in his bed, Batman's cowl and gloves are gone, and he's covering Dick with a light blanket.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he begins to remove the Nightwing mask and asks, "Do you want the remote?"

Dick opens his eyes and looks over at Bruce, "Yeah. I guess so."

Tim sets the glass of water on the side table and gives Bruce the thermometer.

Handing Dick the remote, Bruce then places the thermometer against his son's forehead and presses the button while sliding it across his brow and down to his jaw. "100.7."

 _"Why_... does he have a fever?" Tim stresses, "What the heck did they do?"

Dick looks up at his brother, "You should have seen it, Timmy. It was amazing." Dick rides out a shiver and pulls the blanket up higher, "I moved my legs."

Tim sits on the edge of the bed in the same spot Bruce had just vacated. The grin plastered to his brother's face is one he hadn't seen in months. It touches a spot in his heart and the teen forces down the lump in his throat as he smiles back. He reaches out and touches his brother's arm, "You did?"

Dick nods with heavy lids, "The procedure royally sucked, but for a few minutes, I could move my legs and wiggle my toes. I could _feel_ again."

Tim frowns, "Seems almost cruel to let you experience something like that for just a few minutes before taking it away again."

Dick shakes his head and grins, "No, it's okay. Really. I mean, yeah... that's kind of the hard part, having that sensation fade and then feeling nothing... but with each treatment I'll be able to keep that feeling longer and longer and then do some hard core PT and get back into the suit even faster than we had planned."

 Dick's wheelchair enters the room, followed by Bruce who had changed into jeans and a black pullover. Bruce lines the chair up along the vacant side of the bed and Tim looks up at him, "Is it true? Will this treatment help Dick to recover faster?"

Bruce nods, "That's the idea. To have him at almost peak performance while we wait for the spinal shock to fade away. Once that's gone, he'll have only a few months of training to go through before he can hit the streets again, instead of more than a year."

"But this treatment can't fix the spinal shock?"

"If only," Dick answers and winces as he reaches for the glass of water, "It can bypass it for a while, but it can't reverse it. That's just something I'm going to have to be patient about."

Tim takes the glass after Dick finishes drinking and places it back on the side table. He looks up at Bruce who is leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, "Are we still looking at the same timeframe for that?"

Bruce nods, "Approximately another six to eight months."

"Damn." Tim looks out the bedroom door with a huff.

Dick reaches a hand out from under his blanket and touches his brother's arm, "Hey—" a large yawn cuts him off, "—Dr. Goodwin took some x-rays and he said my back should be basically healed by the end of the week. That's something."

"Basically?" Tim raises an eyebrow.

"For the most part," Bruce answers when Dick closes his eyes. He can tell the short conversation is becoming too much for him at the moment and motions for Tim to follow him. They walk out into the living room and he brings Tim up to date on what Dr. Goodwin had explained before giving a rundown of Dr. Bowman’s procedure and why it has left his brother in his current state.

"So, do we need to give him some ibuprofen or something?"

Bruce shakes his head, "Not until about seven. They gave him a dose just before one o'clock. If it gets any higher, we'll alternate Tylenol and ibuprofen every three hours until it starts to come back down, but the chances of that happening, I was told, are slim."

Tim nods and chews on his lip as he processes everything, "Are you staying here tonight? Do you need me to go out on patrol?"

Bruce looks at his watch, "I'll probably hang around here for another few hours, just to make sure he's still doing well, and then I'll go out. It's up to you if you want to go on patrol or not. Alfred won't mind coming over if you decide to go."

Tim thinks for a minute and then looks at Bruce, "I'll probably just stay in. I've got a midterms coming up and if Dick's going to be pretty much zonked out, having a quiet night to catch up on some studying would be nice."

Bruce nods, "Want me to have Alfred come over anyway?"

"Sure; if he doesn't mind..." 

Smirking, Bruce claps Tim on the shoulder, "You know he won’t mind in the least."

TBC


End file.
